Every Mountain Made Low

by Alex White

  She’d been in the Hound’s Tail long enough to know which rooms were occupied and which weren’t. She’d pretty much been introduced to everyone over the course of her time there, and had seen inside each of their little worlds. Even though she despised Cap, she was often drawn to his room, which was filled with dozens of brightly-painted, handmade toys. They lined a couple shelves that Cap had erected, covering the stained, chipping walls. Apparently, he had a wood shop somewhere around the back – a gift from Tailypo – but Loxley hadn’t been out to see it. Cap particularly favored horses, and the big man had carved his share of them. He did a lot of the detail work in his room, and so had a wide array of razor-sharp knives, too.

  The solid grip of a knife gave Loxley a comfort she hadn’t had before, and Cap owned the best ones she’d ever touched. She’d expected the kitchen to be well-stocked, and it was, but there was something about the alder wood handles of Cap’s blades, and the swirl of the steel. He’d told her his very favorite knife was made by a local blacksmith, eight layers folded ten times, and it had cost him nearly a month’s pay. He showed her how it sliced through the wood, shaving off slivers as though they were butter. When she’d asked to hold the tool, he’d flatly refused, handing her one of his cheaper ones. She’d pocketed it without a second thought when his eyes were turned.

  She realized as she’d passed his door that the only time he didn’t act like an asshole was when he talked about woodworking. What if she was like that about farming or music? She hadn’t considered the possibility before.

  She passed Cap’s door, then Felix’s, then stopped in front of the next one. The room on the other side belonged to nobody, and that thought unsettled Loxley. It was a blank slate, worse than a stranger’s house. Humans left a warm tread wherever they went, like footprints in snow; they would eventually be gone, but not for awhile.

  What if Marie wasn’t inside? What would greet her then?

  She pushed open the door and peered in, her eyes following the light spilling onto the bed. Bare floors, bare walls, the lump of a woman buried under the covers, her chest slowly rising and falling. Her soft breaths whistled through her teeth, and she turned over, snuggling into her pillow.

  A scuffed, wooden chair sat in the corner of the room. Loxley sneaked inside and shut the door, enclosing the room in darkness, then made her way to the seat. She sat down and it creaked. Marie’s breath started.

  “I’m not here to hurt you,” Loxley whispered.

  “Thank you,” came Marie’s lisping voice.

  “I don’t know what to think about you.”

  The sheets rustled.

  “I want to think you’re bad, and I should kill you,” Loxley said. “That seems really easy, and you did some bad things. But I know people just want to use you because your face is weird. They do that to me, too, because I can’t think like everyone else.”

  “I... I guess I appreciate that.”

  “You have to help me, though – tell me things about Duke and Hiram – or I’ll probably hurt you. Might change my mind about what I just said.”

  “Are you trying to threaten me?”

  “No. If you don’t tell me what I want to know... then you’re helping your old boss, and people who help him need to die.”

  Marie swallowed loudly. “I heard the boys say that your name was Loxley. How did you know that I drove Nora on the day she died?”

  “I used to work at Fowler’s Apothecary up on the third ring. I saw you pick her up from the window.”

  “Oh.”

  “And also I have her spirit inside me. I know everything about the day Hiram murdered her.”

  No response came. Loxley wondered what sort of face Marie was making. It was a little easier to talk to her in the dark, where Loxley could focus on the sound of her voice. Voices told more truths than faces, but it was hard to un-jumble them when she had to deal with both at once. The hare-lipped woman was doubly-difficult, because her voice and face weren’t like anyone else’s. Loxley couldn’t use the lessons she’d learned about everyday people with her.

  Eventually, Marie whispered, “That’s crazy.”

  “We all act normal, but nobody is normal,” she replied, paraphrasing Jayla. “I can make myself like Nora because her ghost did something to me. What happened to your lip?”

  “I was born like this.”

  She didn’t know much about men, but she knew they didn’t like strange women. “And you have a kid? Did your boyfriend like your lip or something?”

  “The father is out of the picture. We’re not talking about my son.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’re trying to decide whether or not you want me dead. Jesus Christ, do you think I’d tell you anything about my family?”

  Loxley scratched an itch on her nose. Her eyes had begun to adjust to the tiny amount of light seeping around the door, and she could make out a little of Marie’s shape under the covers. “Why did you help bring me back here?”

  “You said you could get me a job. I don’t want to work for Duke anymore. He and Hiram been killing a lot more than just Nora.”

  “Alvin Kimball.”

  “Yeah. Had to drive him around, too, down to the furnace at the Foundry.”

  “You weren’t driving your limo that day.”

  “How did you know?”

  “I saw you. Why didn’t you just dump him somewhere, like Nora?”

  Marie laughed. “You can’t just throw a man like Alvin Kimball on the street. He could’ve been mayor. Some slut from the seventh ring gets dumped off in her apartment, ain’t nobody going to ask questions. She’s a never-was – nobody to anybody. Cops are going to say she did something to provoke a man, maybe even someone hiring her for a lay, and he shot her. No one is going to spend time on that.”

  “Nora wasn’t a slut.”

  “You think that matters to anyone but you? Cops are busy. They want to shut a case down.”

  “No, they don’t. Officer Crutchfield always helps find people who steal stuff.”

  It was true. On more than one occasion, the man had chased down a thief in front of Loxley, settled a dispute and generally kept the order. He was a bad man, but he wasn’t lazy. She shook her head as if to slough off the memories. She didn’t like remembering the good parts. He was a bad man and a dead man, and that was that.

  “Oh yeah? There’s a going theory about what happened to Nora among the locals, and I think the police share the view. Turns out some retard broke into the place and killed Miss Vickers. No one knows why she did it, but who knows why retards do anything?”

  The words had barely escaped Marie’s lips when Loxley slapped the fire out of her. Loxley brought her hand back, electrified, yet cool with spittle. That had felt far better than shaking out the crackles.

  “I’m not retarded.”

  Marie slowly brought her hand to her cheek. “Who gives a fuck? Nobody gives two shits about you, little girl, except that you stay dead. You get that? They ain’t here to ask questions about your life and make sure they get all the facts straight. They’re just here to take what they can get, same as me... same as you.”

  As the woman lisped the words, Loxley sat in silence, stunned by the sudden outpouring.

  “You want me to feel sorry for you because I misjudged you or something? Try to find a job with a face like mine – when everybody’s looking at you, trying not to throw up. Duke’s the first man to ever to give me half a chance, and I’m quitting because, one of these days, he’s going to decide I know too much. I want a job when this is all over. I want food for my little boy who’s sitting at home right now, wondering where his momma is.”

  Loxley swallowed. “I need to know about –”

  “No, what you need to do is let me go home.”

  “We could bring your son here.”

  “Are you crazy? You think I want him running around a place like this?”

  “What are you going to do, then?”

  Marie shrugged. �
�I’m going to tell Hiram I saw you, and you want to meet him at the Foundry to turn yourself over in two days’ time. And after that, I’m going home.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yeah, and you’re going to make sure he don’t come home from that trip, or I’m going to tell Duke where you been hiding, and he’s going to take care of everybody here.”

  Loxley imagined Hiram’s leer, and her guts lurched. Her wish was coming to fruition: she would get to face Nora’s killer. She imagined his face in the hot steel glow of the furnaces and smelters. She thought about him traipsing around the catwalks, pistol drawn, ready for blood. Involuntarily, she pictured him swimming through the cooling tower pool, and she fumed.

  “No, that’s my place,” Loxley growled.

  “Well, then you better put Hiram in the ground.”

  “What? I wasn’t talking to you.”

  The door swung wide, flooding the room with light. Marie raised a hand to shield her vision, and Loxley did the same. When her eyes adjusted, she saw Jayla standing in the doorway with a plate of fresh biscuits and steaming gravy in one hand, and the other hand on her hip.

  “Loxley what the hell do you think you’re doing?” shouted Jayla. “Get your ass out here right now! Right now. The fuck I tell you about bothering her?”

  Loxley inched toward the door, glancing back at Marie. She couldn’t read the hare-lipped woman’s expression.

  “Don’t you look at her,” snapped Jayla. “You look at me. Get out here right now. She ain’t going to talk to you anymore.”

  “Two days, at midnight,” said Marie, as if to prove her wrong.

  “By the furnaces,” said Loxley.

  With her free hand, Jayla wrenched Loxley out the door by her collar. Loxley flinched as her friend slammed the door shut and shoved her toward her room.

  “The fuck I tell you, girl?” grumbled Jayla.

  “You told me to let her rest.”

  “And you didn’t!”

  “I just wanted to look at her... to be sure I still wanted to let her live.”

  Jayla rolled her eyes. “Oh, is that all? What did you decide?”

  When they reached their room, Loxley pushed open the door. “I think I should let her go. She said she didn’t want to work for Duke.”

  They entered, Jayla slinging the hot plate down onto the dresser top. “Do you know where you are right now?”

  “Yes. Why wouldn’t I?” She sat down on her bed and folded her hands into her lap.

  “And who is in charge around here?”

  “Tailypo?”

  “That’s right. Who do you think gets to decide what happens to Marie?”

  “I do. I could have slit her throat in there. Cap let me borrow one of his knives.” Loxley said it without rancor.

  Jayla crossed her arms and leaned on the door frame. “You know, it’s hard to see who you really are, girl. One minute, you’re this cute little thing, talking about farming, scurrying around humming to yourself.”

  “I only hum when I’m scared.”

  “It’s adorable. And the next minute, you’re talking about slitting a woman’s throat while she sleeps with the same tone you’d use to describe cracking an egg. Don’t you see how that’s what makes you look crazy?”

  Loxley thought about what it would be like if murder was that simple. She imagined the police storming into someone’s house, only to find a fried egg buried in the basement and a ruthless, skillet-wielding murderer. The idea made her chuckle.

  Jayla scowled. “See, now that scares me when you laugh like that.”

  “What?”

  “Out of nowhere, at odd moments. I’ve seen you do it a couple of times since you got here. Loxley, I like you, girl, but –”

  “You like me?”

  Silence enfolded them. Loxley watched her fumble for words, but the door to change her mind rapidly closed. Now the phrase hung in the air between them like a bright balloon, neither woman being able to avoid looking at it. Jayla had said “but.” “But” what? But Loxley was crazy? But she was stupid? But she was ugly? She’d never considered herself pretty or ugly, but if she had to evaluate herself on a scale with Nora, she’d lose. Her mouth felt dry, and she itched her calf muscles to forestall the ants. She hummed without thinking.

  Jayla sighed. “But I don’t get you.”

  She hung her head. Her skin felt leaden. “If I don’t get people, they think I’m retarded. If they don’t get me, they think I’m retarded.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You just told me that we’re all crazy. Just ten minutes ago. Now you’re telling me it’s my fault – my fault you don’t understand me.”

  “That’s not what I said.”

  “You should try harder before just giving up on me, because –”

  “Loxley, that’s not what I said!” shouted Jayla.

  Loxley stopped talking. A door opened down the hall, and Loxley heard Cap call for them to keep it down. Jayla leaned out and shot him a ‘fuck you’ look that Loxley had no trouble deciphering. The door shut in the distance.

  “Wh –” Loxley tried to speak, but the words didn’t want to come. Her light humming filled the room, along with a creaking rhythm as she bounced her knees. Her ears rang from Jayla’s shout, and her skin crawled. She didn’t like shouting for the same reason she didn’t like guns: too loud, too sudden.

  Jayla shook her head and snorted. “I said I liked you.” She pushed away from the door with her back, unfolding her arms as she did. “And no, I don’t know what that means.” She gestured to Loxley’s thermal top. “Now put a different shirt on. Tee was asking for you.”

  The Wolf at the Door

  LOXLEY’S STOMACH QUIVERED. Her fight with Jayla had left her jangled, and she hadn’t touched the plate of breakfast before leaving to see Tailypo. The early hours of the morning transformed the building from a popular, exciting club to a cold, dank crypt. Twitches of exhaustion jolted her as she walked. She moved down creaky hallways and up a flight of stairs, and before long, she stood in Tailypo’s paisley hallway. The convulsing patterns of the wallpaper were only worsened by dingy light and severe anxiety.

  She hadn’t been able to stop humming the whole way. Her grip on her mind seemed tenuous, as though any second the static would sweep her up and she’d wander away. She kept walking toward Tailypo’s office, pulled by invisible chains.

  She didn’t want to see him again. Not now, not ever. Her favorite part about the club was the fact that Tailypo spent most of his time up in his office, barely interacting with the staff. He could stay that way for all she cared. His ravenous gaze and handsy mannerisms were jarring, as if he couldn’t resist touching her. He was quick to put his bare skin against hers, to touch her hand or neck as he passed, and it gave her jitters thinking about it.

  She stopped outside his door, lowering her head as she raised her hand to knock. A couple of odd sounds escaped her lips; “Speaking to nonsense,” her mother had always called it. It happened when the static got too close. It had happened when she saw Nora’s ghost for the first time. And now, on the edge of unconsciousness, Loxley was supposed to go and parley with this monster? She wanted Jayla to be there with her – angry Jayla. She’d stood up to Tailypo in the hall. Could she do that again? Then she remembered Quentin’s understanding manners, quick laugh and kind smile, and wished for him instead.

  “Quit muttering out there and get in here!” came Tailypo’s voice from inside.

  She very nearly turned around and marched back the way she’d come. Instead, she pushed open the door. She wrapped her arms around herself, in spite of the roaring fire across the room. Tailypo stood at his desk, grinning widely with his arms spread over its surface. Those damned animals still littered the room, and she felt a fresh wave of nerves at seeing the forest-patterned walls.

  “Come on in, kiddo!” His voice boomed with joviality, and Loxley hummed even louder, trying to even out the ragged edges in her brain.

  She ven
tured further into the room, and he crossed around the desk to meet her. He wore a red silk bathrobe and flannel pants, and he’d left the coat open in front, exposing taut skin and rippling muscle.

  “You did great, baby. Really great,” he said, clasping her hands in his, hanging on too long.

  “Thanks,” she mumbled, yanking her hand back. “I’m going to go now.”

  “Oh, don’t do that. I got a lot to chat about. Pull up a chair,” he said, gesturing to an empty seat by his desk. “Can I make you a drink?” He stepped over to a hidden bar, opening up a cabinet and removing two glasses.

  Her stomach was a ball of acid. “Yeah. I’d like some milk.”

  “Sweetheart, let me make you something that a person would drink for fun.”

  “You can put sugar in the milk. My mother used to do that for me.”

  He laughed and returned to his task. “You made a big splash. A big splash. I bet they’re going to send people in from Nashville and Atlanta to see you play.”

  She watched him carefully as he poured two glasses, one from a bottle of whiskey, and another from a bottle of schnapps. “That’s not milk.”

  “It’s got plenty of sugar. Keep you nice and warm, too.”

  “No.”

  He considered her, his eyes twinkling in the firelight. His index finger tapped the rim of the glass meant for Loxley. “Well, all right then, baby. I’m just going to have to drink it myself,” he said, setting both glasses down on his desk. “Quentin tells me that you near beat a woman to death in the streets after the show. I’m not one to tell the talent how to celebrate, but...”

  She folded her hands across her lap and began to rub her thumb over the dry skin. Tailypo’s face was too strange to decipher, so she chose to look at her knees. “Yeah, but I didn’t kill her because I don’t think she’s all bad.”

  “I don’t give a shit about that.”

  “You don’t?” She glanced up at him.

  “Do you remember what I said to you right before you left the stage?”

  She thought back. She remembered her disgust at his sudden grip on her arm, the thrill of the audience’s rhythmic claps and the blaring stage lights. She recalled the warm wood of her poplar beauty and the spider’s web pattern on the back. She tried to figure the number of apertures in it, and concentrated hard on the memory of its form.