by Brent, Cora
I tossed my phone in my purse, refusing to browse the Internet, which was not a happy place to hang out when you were an object of public scorn. A sense of isolation washed over me. If only there was someone I could talk to who understood how that felt.
My mother was not a good option. Despite being out of the public eye for two decades and only granting occasional interviews in her Quaker house while flanked by her chickens and goats, she remained universally beloved.
My father wasn’t really a better choice. While the brash opinions he expressed on his show tended to produce as much contempt as praise, he enjoyed both equally. Bad publicity was nothing more than a challenge to be pounced on with glee.
With a jolt I remembered there was indeed someone who could relate to my problems.
Someone who’d also made crappy life choices.
Someone who was the textbook definition of ‘bad reputation’.
Someone who’d heard firsthand how much noise I make when I come so hard I shake.
That last bit was probably irrelevant.
Growing up, Syler McKnight had never been anything more to me than my best friend’s maddening little brother. Two years younger and not even on my radar as a real guy, he relished antagonizing everyone in his orbit and wore this know-it-all smirk that you just wanted to slap right off his face.
Syler was a chronic prankster. Since I spent so much time at the McKnight house and wouldn’t give him the time of day, I quickly became one of his favorite targets. He would do things like put food coloring in the bathroom soap dispenser and hide alarm clocks somewhere in the guest bedroom to blast me awake at three a.m. Gemma would just roll her eyes at his antics and tell me to ignore him. But if your Boston cream breakfast donut ends up being mysteriously full of mayonnaise, you too might start down the path toward bitterness.
A long time had passed since I last sat on a toilet seat covered with plastic wrap, courtesy of Syler’s demented mind. All that immature nonsense probably would have faded into the backdrop of history if it weren’t for THAT NIGHT.
When I crept into a dark room with my heart pounding and my loins afire.
When I dropped my panties and my judgment.
When I mistakenly thought I was flinging myself at Syler’s older brother.
And then stuck around long (LONG!) after I realized my error.
All the positions. All the orgasms. All the shame.
I still got hot thinking about it.
I was still mortified thinking about it.
And I would rather gargle with goat piss than make Syler McKnight aware of either of these facts.
At least I wouldn’t have to face him in Maple Springs today. He was living in Baltimore or Philadelphia or something. He moved around a lot. His status as a tech world scoundrel probably had something to do with that. Syler often traveled home for the holidays but there was a comfortable gap between now and Christmas. I had time to prepare myself for how to handle him. Gemma probably would have mentioned if he was around. She knew we didn’t get along.
She just didn’t know about THAT NIGHT.
Beside me, the red scarf gained another inch and Grandma was still getting run over by a reindeer. The song must be on perpetual repeat.
With a sigh and a few deep breaths meant to extinguish all the Syler sex memories, I propped my purse up between my shoulder and the window, using it as a pillow. I didn’t believe I’d actually fall asleep but the next thing I knew the train had stopped and Yarn Lady was poking me in the arm with her crochet hook.
“We’re in Albany, hon,” she said and began stuffing her belongings back into her handmade bag. During my nap the scarf had mushroomed to an impressive length. It could probably be used to tie five people together.
“Thanks.” I stifled a yawn and attempted to fix my disheveled state while Yarn Lady wrapped herself in her jingling comforter coat.
“It was nice meeting you,” I added before remembering that I’d never actually introduced myself. Normally I didn’t forget my manners like that.
“I’m Katrina,” I offered.
She was suddenly in a hurry. “Nice to meet you too, Katrina. Well, I hope you enjoy your visit to Maple Springs.”
Then she hurried down the aisle toward the door, the hem of her long purple puff coat streaming behind her like a stiff, jingling cape.
A timely message on my phone informed me that my driver was waiting to take me to Maple Springs. Technology was marvelous. How did anyone get by before smart phones? Did they all just sit around and wonder where everyone was?
My driver was a college age kid named Warren and thankfully he did not exude Bath Bomber vibes. From the backseat of his Prius I stared at his neatly trimmed scalp and wondered when I’d crossed the threshold where a twenty-year-old man was referred to as a ‘kid’ inside my head. Maybe that was a side effect of turning thirty. Which I suddenly remembered was the milestone I’d be confronting next week. Being born the day before Christmas meant your birthday had the tendency to be neglected. Apparently even I’d lost track of it.
We’d barely left Albany behind when fat white flakes began to fall from the sky.
“Look at the snow,” I said, delighted in spite of the fact that Warren had something against running the heat in his car. I shivered and rubbed my gloved hands together.
“First real snow of the year,” Warren confirmed. He squinted at a graphic on his dashboard and pressed a button. “Looks like we can expect eight to twelve inches around here. A lot more than that up in the mountains.”
The light dusting of flakes quickly became a minor blizzard and by the time we reached Maple Springs, Warren was muttering some minor obscenities as his car slid all over the slick road. Through the sloppy white haze I glimpsed the outline of a stately black and gold sign.
Welcome To Maple Springs. The Quaintest Town In New York.
A split second later Warren hydroplaned on Union Avenue, nearly colliding with the bronze statue of a dachshund named Felipe, who’d earned fame during The Great Depression for being the first dog to solo parachute out of a biplane. Just another piece of that Maple Springs quaintness.
The windshield wipers were moving at full speed and could hardly keep up with the falling snow. I’d lost my bearings but we seemed to be close to the center of town. Warren turned left. Outside my window I saw a pickup truck skid into a curb. Warren turned right. I was about to open my mouth and ask Warren if he needed help finding the way when he braked. The windshield wipers cleared the view long enough to show me that we were in front of Gemma’s house. The three story Victorian complete with a dramatic tower, a wrap around front porch and ornate trim was as stunning as ever.
I tipped Warren handsomely in order to make up for the added trouble of driving me through a whiteout and asked him if he’d like to come inside and get warm. I was sure Gemma wouldn’t mind. Gemma was an angel. Gemma would probably sit him beside the fireplace and hand him a pair of furry slippers and a cup of hot chocolate with whipped cream and a peppermint straw. Warren might never want to leave. But Warren just shook his head with a smile and hauled my suitcase out of his trunk, driving away before I even managed to get the handle extended.
The porch lights were already on and she must have been waiting. My best friend emerged with a thick red shawl over her shoulders and hurried down the front porch steps.
“Aunt Katty!” shouted Gretel, five years old and a blonde tornado who braved the storm to zoom past her mother and collide with my legs.
Gemma followed and enveloped me in a fierce hug. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she said.
I was glad too. Gemma grabbed my suitcase while I hoisted shivering little Gretel on my hip and moved indoors before she froze. I was exactly where I should be. I was with family.
I was home.
4
Spirit Killers and Other Creeps
Syler
The snowfall had subsided by morning and left a mess in its wake. I didn’t have a ruler handy but there
looked to be far more than eight inches on the ground as the forecasters had promised.
Thankfully, the army of unsung snowplow heroes had already done their work and by six a.m. the roads were looking passable. Gemma and the kids would probably be having breakfast around the time I rolled into Maple Springs so I stopped in Albany and snagged a bag of bagels. I knew I could find bagels in Maple Springs too but I didn’t feel like running into anyone this early and besides, the best bakery in town was Benoit’s. As in Ophelia Benoit. She, the Syracuse-bound lover of Russell.
Because I always hated wearing gloves my hands were freezing. I rubbed them together in search of circulation while waiting for the bagels and cream cheese to be bagged up. The bagel place was enjoying a brisk business this morning in spite of the weather.
I nearly missed seeing the young guy huddled at a corner table with his laptop and an oversized mug of coffee. He was skinny and sported an uncultivated yellow goatee but that wouldn’t have caused me to take a second look.
The royal blue hoodie he was wearing, however, did give me a moment’s pause.
I’d seen them before, the block lettered shirts that said, ‘Crush Spirit Killers.’ In an era that boasted hundreds of self-help movements, somehow Adam Free’s invention had leapt to the top. He appeared on talk shows. He sold tickets to packed venues like Madison Square Garden. His book, Spirit Killers and Other Creeps, had won a place on the New York Times Bestseller list for something like eighty weeks.
Adam Free was my roommate in college, both of us computer majors with big dreams. Like many of our classmates, we started a business venture. Our little programming enterprise took off when a gaming platform that we (well, mostly me) created surged to overnight fame as the new ‘it’ thing that everyone needed to play on their phones ten hours a day. We received offers. I didn’t want to take them. He did. He became angry. He insisted that I’d stolen his ideas and then tried to take credit for them. He cultivated a social media following on the basis of his phony claims. He said I was mean. Violent. The thief of joy. The enemy of happiness.
The Spirit Killer of his nightmares.
There are only so many ways you can defend yourself against falsehoods. There’s only so long you can argue with people like that before it becomes useless and exhausting. Apparently everyone needs to believe in a villain on order to spice up their lives.
Adam Free surged into the spotlight with lies. I retreated into the background in disgust.
Years had passed but still, if anyone searched for my name today they’d find a lot of unpleasant results.
I wondered what the guy wearing the hoodie would have thought if he knew who I was. He wouldn’t have been pleased to meet with the original Spirit Killer. He might have screamed. To the faithful acolytes of Adam Free, it was probably like meeting Jack the Ripper.
I left the bagel shop and drove straight to Maple Springs. My feelings about this town were always mixed when I was away. Yet when I returned it felt like I had never left. When I was here I didn’t mind feeling that way. It was nice to know there was a corner of the universe where I still belonged.
The house was unchanged, unaffected by the passing of years. Gemma was the one to thank for that. I kicked the snow off my boots at the front door and hesitated to press the button, knowing that the insanely loud doorbell chime would blast anyone out of bed if they happened to be sleeping in. Whenever I visited, Gemma always insisted that I should use my own key.
“This is your home too,” she would claim and wouldn’t hear any arguments.
I hadn’t lived here since running off to college but I appreciated Gemma’s determination. She wanted the house to serve as the McKnight family’s North Star. The place we looked to when we were searching for home.
I felt kind of funny about using a key on a house where I didn’t actually live but right now my options were either key or the screaming doorbell.
“Key it is,” I muttered, balancing the bagel bag and sifting through my key ring with half frozen fingers to find the right one.
Inside the house I was immediately struck by my sister’s superb holiday decorating efforts. The interior was a festive red and green explosion. The aroma of gingerbread hung in the air. It was where Dickens’ A Christmas Carol wanted to live.
There was no one in sight. I paused at the bottom of the winding staircase and listened while the ugliest cat in North America watched me from a red plaid pet bed in a nearby alcove.
“Looking good there, Florence,” I said.
The cat blinked her lone eye, threw me a withering, “Not you again,” expression and promptly burrowed back into the warm comfort of her bed.
Someone coughed somewhere in an upstairs bedroom but there were no other signs that the human inhabitants were awake. Understandable. They’d all suffered a rotten day yesterday and this morning the temperature was outrageously cold. Not ideal conditions for early rising.
A framed picture of my sister’s family caught my eye. I hadn’t seen this one before. It looked like it was taken in summertime. I recognized the setting as nearby Magpie Park. The duck pond was visible in the background. Gemma was her usual radiant self in a light blue dress, her blonde hair piled high up on her head in a braided coil. The twins, Gretel and Evan, looked as if they were ready to squirm out from beneath their mother’s arms and roll around on the muddy bank in their clean clothes. Chloe frowned with nine-year-old solemnity behind her oversize black glasses that she insisted on wearing even though her vision was perfect. Drew’s grin was full of thirteen-year-old mischief beneath his mop of tousled black curls.
And then there was Russell.
His brawny face was split into a smile but his eyes were directed elsewhere. I gave photographic Russell the middle finger, although he had no chance of seeing it because photographic Russell was looking away. Perhaps in the direction of Syracuse.
The least I could do was go put some coffee on, caffeine being my sister’s only vice. I could use some myself in order to thaw out. Like so many old houses, the kitchen was located at the back of the house. The bagels and I headed in that direction.
I was still in the hallway past the main room my grandmother always referred to as a ‘parlor’ when I heard noise. Banging and clanging and general havoc, all stemming from the kitchen. I didn’t think orderly Gemma was the culprit. One or more of the kids must be in there, maybe trying to cook breakfast to cheer up the rest of the family.
With a broad smile on my face at the prospect of seeing my nieces and nephews, I pushed open the swinging kitchen door.
“Guess who’s home?” I boomed, expecting a small person or two to squeal and come running into my arms.
“EEYAAH!” shrieked a startled Katrina Feldman.
She spun around beside the sink. Two breathless seconds later she tossed the contents of her coffee cup in my direction. A brown puddle of hot liquid landed harmlessly a good two feet from my boots.
I looked at the puddle.
Then I looked at Katrina.
She wore a pink, footed fleece getup that could pass for a cotton candy Halloween costume and her hair was as wild as if she’d spent all night riding around in a top down convertible.
“What the hell did you do that for?” I asked.
Her hand went to her heart. “You scared the crap out of me. I thought you were an intruder.”
“But you threw the coffee after you saw it was me.”
She thought about that. “I have slow reflexes.”
“Are you planning to throw anything else?” I shielded my chest with the bagel bag, just in case.
“Not right now.” She frowned. “I didn’t know you were coming.”
“I’m coming. I’m coming. Fuck, Syler. I’m coming.”
Awesome. Just like that I was hard. I pivoted to the counter to set down the bagel bag and shield my boner. There was nothing I could do about flashbacks when they hit except pretend they weren’t happening. Katrina would not be amused to hear how often she starred i
n my mental porn.
“I didn’t know you were coming, either,” I said, congratulating myself for keeping filthy suggestions out of my tone. That long ago night when we fucked like two horny enemy beasts in the wild wasn’t something we ever discussed. This wasn’t a good time to start.
“Don’t step in the puddle,” she warned after she set her mug down and began unrolling a spool of paper towels. By the time she tore them off she had enough in hand to mop up the Exxon oil spill.
“It’s possible you don’t need quite that many,” I observed.
She dropped to her knees and covered the puddle with her mighty paper towel snowball.
“Do you want to clean it up?” she muttered from the floor as she industriously wiped.
“Not really.”
“Then quit complaining.”
“I was just trying to be helpful. Gemma’s got enough to deal with. She doesn’t need to wake up and find all her paper towels missing.”
Katrina pushed her hair out of her face and peered up at me. “I did not use all of the paper towels.”
“True. You left a few stragglers on the roll. You should spray some cleaner or the floor will be sticky. No one likes a sticky floor.”
“No one likes a wiseass either.”
“Are you expecting one?” I peered out of the ice-encrusted kitchen window. “It’s a little early for visitors. Unless you brought this wiseass with you from the city.”
Katrina uttered a sound that sounded like a growl and then climbed to her feet. She stuffed the paper towels into the trashcan and turned to face me. That pajama getup was really quite something. It molded her curves and I highly doubted there was a bra under that fleece. A single zipper line stretched from her collarbone all the way down to a place my tongue would like to be.
This train of thought was not easing the pressure in my pants.
“How did you get here?” she wanted to know.