by Sarah Porter
RUBY SLIPPERS
The sky falls through violet, layer on darkening layer. We hug our father for a long moment, then open the cab door. Dad slides onto the seat and stares up at us, entranced by the impossibility facing him: Dashiell and me slipped into one skin, our voices alternating in a rapid blur as we tell him to be safe, to stay hidden; as we promise to call soon. He must think he’s caught in a waking dream, because he doesn’t try to resist when we give the driver our aunt’s address and kiss him on the forehead.
“You’ll find Everett? You know where he might be, Da—”
He doesn’t finish the name. He doesn’t know what to call us anymore.
“We’ll do our best to bring Everett safely home,” Dashiell assures him, and a few notes of my voice mix into his. Dash and I are together now, a flux of stirred thought—so I can feel Dashiell’s mingling hope and doubt as if they were my own. He won’t offer any more than that we’ll try; he still refuses to promise me that Everett won’t die tonight. “Ruby and I will do everything we can for him.”
Dash says that as much for my sake as for our father’s, but I can feel the suspended presence of what he won’t say, what he won’t even let himself think in so many words, because he knows that if he does I’ll hear them: Only as a last resort, Ruby-Ru. Only if we can’t find another way.
We close the cab door and watch the taillights sinking into dusk. “I’ll be leaving you now, my Ru-Ru,” Dash whispers through my lips—making sure I know it’s definitely him and not my own thoughts. “You know what you have to do.”
I know what you told me to do. But Dashiell, before you go, tell me we won’t hurt him!
“Hush, Ru. Elena will be waiting for you. If all goes well, Never will be ours again by morning.”
If we can’t get him back, Dash, what will you do?
But he won’t answer, because he can’t honestly tell me the only thing I could stand to hear. He’s already gone and I’m alone in the street. I’m lost among a hundred shining windows where dislocated hands clink glasses of wine, where children tumble off sofas and their small feet wave in pink socks above the sills. I could be a ghost looking back at the world I’ve left behind. I could be the final spark of a girl still haunted by the living. Transfixed by the beams of my memories.
And then I pull myself away and start the walk to Liv’s house. I could lose everything tonight, my family and my future. Every blue shadow spanning under the streetlamps seems too vivid, too graphic, as if all the terrible possibilities confronting me were drawn on the ground. How will I ever convince Liv that everything is normal?
When I called her earlier to ask if I could bring Elena along to her sleepover, she was so startled that she could barely be polite—and Liv is always carefully polite and kind to everyone no matter how she feels about them. I’m just surprised that Elena would want to hang out with us, that’s all. As overwhelmed as I’m feeling now, it’s almost funny to think of what Liv couldn’t bring herself to say: that Elena’s way too cool for us. That if I’m starting to be friendly with Elena, then I might decide I’m too cool for Liv soon, too.
I couldn’t tell her not to worry—or not to worry about anything so ordinary, so threaded into the living world. I couldn’t say, Liv, there’s something buried under the potted rosebush on your stoop. My hands buried it there, and I didn’t even know I’d left my house.
I couldn’t say, A legion of ghosts would crush me if they could, to stop me from touching it again.
Or, If we can’t save Everett tonight, what possibilities will be left for me?
Something Dashiell said to me when he was still alive keeps on reverberating in my mind: You haven’t turned against me yet, but who knows if you will one day?
Don’t make me turn against you, Dash, I say in my thoughts. I don’t know where he is now, or whether he’s listening. Please don’t force me to choose between harming Everett and betraying you. I love you more than the whole world, but I can’t let you hurt him. If someone has to be the sacrifice, then please let it be me.
To my right a cat pads along like tensed air. As horrible as it is, I know what I have to do. That cat can’t be allowed to see where I’m going. It can’t watch me reach into the soil below that rosebush.
When I pass below a streetlamp, I’m the only one casting my shadow.
PAIGE
“Miss Kittering,” a voice calls as I step out of my building’s front door. I’ve only heard that voice before when it was insulting me. It sounds much better now that it’s begging. “Miss Kittering, please. You know something. Tell me what happened to my son.”
“Dr. Bohnacker,” I say, suppressing a gag, or maybe it’s a laugh. Why can’t I shake these people? I turn and he’s right behind me on the sidewalk, swaying a little. The old man must be drunk off his gourd. I don’t smell booze but that doesn’t prove anything. Last time I saw him he was perfectly dressed, crisp and controlled. Now his jacket is sagging off one shoulder and his hair sticks up in tufts. There are reddish-purple blotches on his throat. “I’m afraid I’m much too busy to talk to you. I have to get to work.”
If I’d known the way Dashiell’s family would plague me, I would have slapped his face when we first met instead of taking him home. Even though, incredibly, that gold Everett said he found has turned out to be completely real, I’m still utterly sick of these people. They’re all as exhausting as Dash was, but not nearly as much fun.
“I’ll compensate you,” Dr. Bohnacker rasps, one hand flapping vaguely in my direction. “Whatever you lose by missing work, I’ll more than make it up to you. You know something you didn’t tell the police, didn’t tell anyone. I’m sure of it. Tell me now. Please. What happened to Dashiell?”
Passersby turn to stare. Who doesn’t love a random spectacle on a dark street in New York? There are silver feathers glued around my eyes, and more feathers plastered in winglike strokes from the tops of my breasts to my collarbone. A ruff of brittle silver arabesques sticks out around my neck. And this silver-haired, broken-down ass is whining and pawing the air near my arm.
Why, of course I know things you don’t know. Do you believe you have the slightest idea who Dashiell was?
“If I didn’t tell anyone, Dr. Bohnacker, then maybe you should realize that I won’t want to tell you, either. And maybe you’d really rather not hear what I have to say.”
His upper lip hikes. Even now that he’s desperate, pleading with me, his contempt still shows through. “Name your price, Miss Kittering. I need the truth. I’m ready to pay handsomely for it. Dashiell’s death wasn’t as simple as it seemed, I know that. Ever since he died, I’ve had—I suppose it’s only an intuition, but it’s an unshakable one. It wasn’t merely an accidental overdose. There’s something else there. I don’t know what it is, but it’s haunting me.”
I tip my head and smile at him. Everything I look at sparks with the silver fringe around my eyes, and my hand drifts down to rest on my stomach. Something I’ve learned is that I have to take my chances where I can get them, and this looks like the one I’ve been needing. “I’ll name my price afterward, then.”
He waves a hand. Weary acquiescence. It’s not exactly comfortable having this conversation out on the street. We’re squeezed against the wall of my building by the crowds pushing past on their way to restaurants and clubs. I’m not about to invite him up to my apartment, though. I’ve had more than enough of hysterical Bohnackers carrying on in there already. And why should this take long? I’ll spit out the story and leave.
“Weren’t you concerned that Dashiell might have drug debts?” I ask. “After he finally kicked heroin? That he might owe money to, oh, lowlife scum, and not have any way to pay them? Did that cross your mind?”
Dr. Bohnacker pitches from side to side. Now that I’m studying him I think he might be more than drunk. His eyes are glazed as he stares at me. It’s like he’s seen so much that his pupils have given up on accepting anything more.
“I could have guessed that
there might be some trouble of the kind. I didn’t know anything specific.”
“Because he’d stopped telling you anything,” I snap. “So I’ll tell you now. Dashiell owed eight thousand dollars to a complete scumbag named Carl. His old dealer. And since you’d removed yourself from the picture, Dr. Bohnacker, who do you think Carl came to, to try and get his money?”
I let him think about that. He has Dashiell’s gray eyes, but colder.
“After I’d talked to him a few times, Carl told me he’d accept something other than cash. That I could pay off Dashiell’s debt in just an hour or two. I hated Carl. Trust me on that. He was a horrible, repellent rat of a man. But there he was, telling me he was in love with me. That he’d do anything to get his hands on me.”
“Are you saying Dashiell pimped you?” Dr. Bohnacker leans against the brick wall, his eyes half-shuttered, his face dead white. “Of all the things—Dashiell routinely did things that appalled me, and I could never trust—but I never would have thought he’d stoop to that.”
“He never would. Dashiell didn’t know. I made my deal with Carl behind his back. I thought Dash would understand, finally, how much I loved him, since I’d done something so degrading to help him. I thought he’d be grateful. But afterward, when I told him what had happened—Dash didn’t take it well. He was furious. He said, if he’d only known what I was thinking, he could have found another way. He said—awful things to me. It was the worst fight we’d ever had.”
“I’m very sorry for what you experienced. But I don’t see what bearing all this has on Dashiell’s death. I don’t—”
But then he does see. The shine in his eyes shrinks to pinpoints and he sits down, hard. Right on the dirty sidewalk. Dr. Bohnacker is one of the most respected neurosurgeons in New York and here he is, slumped on the pavement like any old derelict. I’m standing over him in a brocade hoopskirt and towering shoes. Everyone walking past gawks at us. The juxtaposition must look as grotesque as it feels.
He asked me for the truth, but I doubt he’ll ever completely recover from hearing it. I’d say it serves him right.
“It was that night,” I say. “Dr. Bohnacker. Dashiell had stayed completely clean until then. I would have known if he hadn’t.”
“You’re telling me that he bought drugs from this man Carl again. That night.”
“Yes.”
“Knowing full well that Carl was obsessed with you. And therefore highly motivated to dispense with your boyfriend. It was easy enough for Carl to slip Dashiell a dose that was guaranteed to kill him. And to be confident that no one could ever prove it was murder. Is that correct? That’s what you’re telling me?”
“I’m telling you that that’s the whole reason Dashiell shot up again. I’m telling you he deliberately chose to let Carl murder him. If it was only that Dash was craving drugs, we had plenty of friends who knew other dealers. He could have scored at our corner bar in twenty minutes if he’d wanted to, but instead he put his life in the hands of someone he knew would take it from him. So would you say that counts as a suicide, Dr. Bohnacker?”
“But why? I understand, of course, that Dashiell was very upset that night, and he could be quite volatile. But why would he—seek out annihilation?”
“Ask yourself that,” I say. I turn my back on him. This is justice, but that doesn’t help. It’s astounding how bitter justice can be.
“I’m asking you!” All his self-control is gone. His voice is a thin howl behind me. “Miss Kittering, I am asking—begging—you. You seem to think I should understand why my son sought his own murder. I don’t understand. I never understood. His endless compulsions, his self-destructiveness. None of it made the slightest sense to me. He was a dearly loved child.”
I hold up my hand and a cab swings to a halt in front of me. Tonight’s party isn’t far away, and I would walk if this was a normal night. But once he’s heard what I’m about to tell him, I’ll have to get out of here in a hurry. Escape the emotional flood. I don’t pity him. I can’t. But I still glance back at him: an old man in a rumpled gray suit, struggling to his knees.
“Dashiell knew exactly what he was,” I say. “He was afraid that—just by being alive, and being himself—he would destroy people he loved. Corrupt them.” Recognition flashes in Dr. Bohnacker’s exhausted face at the word. His mouth slips open. “Maybe knowing that I’d whored for him made that worse. What I did shoved his deepest fears in his face, even though I’d only meant to help. But there was also what you’d said to him. You say you’re haunted, Dr. Bohnacker? So was Dashiell. He was haunted by the monster you saw in him.”
The cab’s back door pops open in my hand. There’s the usual musty rubber smell. Candy wrappers wedged in the crack of the seat. It’s a dark and stinking space, waiting to carry me to yet another room where my only real job is to show that the host is rich enough to afford a cohort of costumed girls in the corners. I don’t have to do anything but stand there. I won’t even bother to smile.
“Dashiell’s come back, Miss Kittering. All the way from death, and regardless of how impossible that is, Dashiell has returned to us. I know it’s absolute madness to say it. I couldn’t believe it myself at first, not even while he was speaking to me. But now I’m nearly sure it’s true. He hasn’t tried to see you?”
My God, he’s drunk. Completely blitzed. He has to be. I get into the cab, pulling the wave of my skirts in after me. Maroon and silver roses rustle as high as my chin.
“My son has come home. He held me. He kissed me. He asked me to trust him. He’s out there now, trying to save … Whatever I did to hurt Dashiell, I know he forgives me.”
I slam the door. There’s still the question of what he owes me, but since it’s something far more serious than money I’d rather talk to him about it once he pulls himself together. And it seems like that could take years, or maybe the rest of his life, which would be more bad luck for me.
Because as sick as I am of these bad-penny Bohnackers, I need something from them. And for that, they’d better be functional.
RUBY SLIPPERS
“So who am I talking to this time?” Elena asks when she sees me. She’s sitting on Liv’s stoop waiting for me; it will be awkward enough, the two of us going in there together, so I can understand why she didn’t want to ring the bell alone. “Are you Ruby, or some insane ghost here to talk me into making the worst mistake of my life? I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
“Right,” I snap. “You’re missing a real party. With all the cool kids. That is just so nice of you!”
Elena has a box from a fancy cupcake shop balanced on her knees. I don’t know exactly what’s going on at Nathan’s tonight, but it definitely doesn’t involve cupcakes, or toenail polish, or watching anime. From the rumors I’ve heard it’s probably more like ten kids high on mushrooms rolling around on the floor together, or maybe breaking into an abandoned warehouse to dance in near-perfect darkness with just a few candles propped in jars. I honestly can’t believe she’s here, either, and it still blows my mind that they invited Everett. Even Everett-not-quite-himself.
Then I realize something: Nathan invited Ever because Elena asked him to.
“I’m here, Ruby. I’m putting myself in serious danger to help your twin brother. So maybe you can drop the sarcasm? You should drop it for your own sake, anyway. It just makes you sound insecure.”
I guess it’s easy not to be insecure when you’re totally full of yourself, I almost say. I smashed that spying cat’s head with a branch and kicked its small body into the Gowanus. I had to do it, but my nerves are still roaring with the horror of the crack, the sensation of caving bone, the white rings in foul water. I’m not in any mood to listen to Elena telling me how I should behave.
Except that she’s right; at least, it’s true that she’s heading into something terrible for the smallest chance of saving Ever, and maybe she deserves to have me act like I appreciate it. I thought that nothing could surprise me anymore, but Elena being secretly in
love with Everett? That still comes as a shock. Of course Dash was the one who saw it first. And of course he was the one who thought of using it.
Everett will never forgive me if anything happens to her tonight, but I’ll take him hating me for the chance of saving him.
“Sorry,” I mutter without looking at her. My right hand is burrowing under the rosebush and the last shriveled apricot petals plop down on my wrist. What do we do if it’s gone?
But there it is, slipped deep among the roots: roughened nubs on a hard swerve of ivory. I extricate it slowly, trying not to damage the rosebush. After that poor cat I can’t face doing harm to another living thing.
As the object breaks free of the soil, light recoils from it in a dozen places. It’s a human jawbone and the teeth are studded with bright gems: diamonds and aquamarines, emeralds and pale topaz. A single, huge, raspberry pink ruby blots out one entire canine.
“Jesus, that’s sick,” Elena says, looking over my shoulder. “That’s wrong in so many ways I don’t know where to start. Like, tacky is the least of its issues.”
The gems have nothing to do with why this thing is so valuable. I hurry to hide it in my coat pocket before anyone sees what we’re doing. “Dash said the gangster who shot Aloysius hacked off his bottom jaw and kept the bone as some kind of trophy, because his jeweled teeth were so famous and everybody who saw it would recognize it right away. It was only decades later that Aloysius realized it could be dangerous and sent someone to try and get it back. Get rid of it. But whoever he sent botched the job.”
Elena stares at me. “Was this what your life was like before you were, ah, possessed? Because you say these things like they’re completely normal.”
“No,” I say. “But they’re normal for me now. They have to be. I don’t have time to waste on freaking out. And anyway—” There’s something I know now. I didn’t understand before, but I should have. I should have realized as soon as I saw Everett with his throat slashed open.