7 Souls

by Barnabas Miller; Jordan Orlando

  And Patrick hated it.

  Not that he’d always hated it. Standing on the soft carpet in his gigantic bedroom in his parents’ house on Fifth Avenue, hands in faded jeans pockets, looking around at the cluttered floor and the jaunty red walls, he had to admit that he’d been very happy here. He used to sit for hours on the floor near the huge bay window that overlooked Central Park, playing, coloring and drawing, and if you bent down close to the polished mahogany boards, Patrick knew, you could still see the grooves and scratches he’d made as a five-year-old, pushing toy cars and action figures around. It was, as his mother used to tell visitors, “a perfect environment for a child.”

  Out in the living room, Mary was talking to his mom. He could barely hear their voices echoing down the corridor, which was the size of a subway tunnel. The Dawes apartment occupied the entire top two floors of an opulently carved white-granite prewar apartment building right across from the ripest edge of Central Park. It was four-thirty in the afternoon, pretty much right after school, and they were here, at Patrick’s parents’ house, because Patrick needed to get his passport.

  Since Dad had kicked him out, Patrick had been putting off coming back here. It wasn’t that he cared—he was just avoiding running into the old man. Patrick’s dad didn’t have any sense of time or place, as in “there’s a time and place for everything.” For Ken Dawes, any time and any place was appropriate for lashing out at his son (or any other underling who’d displeased him). At restaurants (with patrons turning to watch), driving on the freeway in the Bentley (with the driver eventually putting up the motorized privacy screen), even on a crowded sidewalk, Dad would bellow at Trick at the top of his lungs.

  “You’ve got to go there before we leave,” Mary had reminded him in the cafeteria that afternoon. “Without your passport there’s no trip, damn it. Just get it over with.” Mary had sucked the last of her milk through her straw, cheeks dimpling prettily around her pouting lips as she did it. They’d been talking about flying to Cabo for spring break, and he needed his passport, as she was reminding him. “I’ll come with you and hold your hand.”

  He’d agreed, and here he was poking through all the old junk on his desk, sifting through printed party invitations and packs of rolling papers and sheets of drawing paper and cocktail napkins and CDs. Just being in the apartment was sucking the life out of him—he felt like he was being smothered—and he sighed impatiently as he pulled drawers open and picked through the contents of shelves, trying to find his passport.

  He wanted to be miles away. He wanted to be downtown at the Peninsula, where he felt happy and comfortable and nobody bothered him. If he wanted food, he ordered it. If he wanted company—wanted friends to talk to, even in that random minor way you talk while watching bad TV—he could get on the cell and call his buds, Mason and his crew, or some guys from the Chadwick football team, and they would show up, never too high pressure, never too much or too little energy.

  Even Mary could chill in that place, Patrick thought. That was the real miracle. The most high-maintenance, high-strung, high-energy girl in the world, the world’s loudest attention magnet, became nearly subdued at the Peninsula. It was an incredible thing to see. She collapsed onto one of the white couches and took a few deep breaths and Patrick could see the tension, the constant anxiety she always seemed to be drowning in, flowing out of her.

  But here … Trick looked over at his old bed, the gigantic custom-made wooden behemoth with the bold blue paint and the full-size FAO Schwarz tin soldiers flanking its headboard. It had cost something like seven thousand dollars. As a kid, he’d loved it, but come on—once you’ve started shaving, how can you sleep in something like that?

  It was the whole problem. Patrick couldn’t complain about anything in his life, because everything he had was such a gift. The world—or, more specifically, his parents—had been overwhelmingly good to him. So anything that went wrong was his fault.

  Shaking his head to clear it, Patrick looked around at his old bedroom—“old” because, well, he’d been thrown out, hadn’t he? Kicked out by the old man—half the people Patrick knew (his relatives, his parents’ friends) were appalled and concerned; to the other half (everyone he knew under thirty) it just made him more intriguing—more tortured and romantic and dashing.

  Why did Mom have to be here? That was the other thing: the gorgon, the hellion. His mother. Mary was out there right now, discussing God knows what with his adversary, the woman who’d brought him into the world and seemed to regret it more with every passing day.

  “Yes—” Patrick said involuntarily. There it was—his passport—wedged into a drawer beside a forgotten pair of gold-framed Ray-Bans, a box of Trojans and two metal one-hit pipes. (His mother never snooped—it wasn’t the WASP way—and he’d always been completely comfortable storing drug paraphernalia in his bedroom.) Stuffing the passport into his back pocket, Trick flicked the light off. He headed out of the bedroom and down the train-tunnel-size corridor, back toward the living room. As always, he could feel the weight lifting from his shoulders, just knowing that he’d soon be gone from this place.

  “—overstep my bounds.”

  Mary’s voice, coming from around a corner, straight ahead—from between the widely spaced Doric columns that framed the oversize entrance to the living room. She was only twenty feet away, but she couldn’t see him.

  “Oh, not at all, dear!” Patrick’s mother’s voice. “I’m so glad you came to talk.”

  What the hell?

  Patrick stopped in his tracks, not breathing.

  “Like I said: what I’m most afraid of is that he’ll bottom out,” Mary continued. Her voice echoed harshly against the hard surfaces of the apartment—Patrick could hear her perfectly. “I mean, he’s been on such a downward slope, with snorting and with booze; without any kind of break, I just don’t know how far he’ll slip.”

  How far I’ll—What?

  Patrick couldn’t believe his ears. She’s talking about me, he realized. She’s talking to Mom about me; she’s selling me out.

  “I had no idea,” Mom said in her most honeyed voice. Patrick had heard her do this before: she was really good at playing the reasonable, kind saint when she was dealing with anyone outside the family. They never saw the real Mrs. Dawes—the one who shrieked or threw plates against the wall. They only saw the sweet-voiced, philanthropic angel whom Mary was talking to now. “I mean, none—the poor guy. I just thought he’d gotten, you know, at least somewhat clean.”

  “Me too,” Mary’s voice answered. Standing just out of view, not breathing, motionless, Patrick could feel his fingers clenching into fists. His face was heating up. “But in the past few weeks it’s just gotten worse and worse. I’ve been trying to, you know, get him to cut down, to stop at a certain point rather than getting another bottle or whatever, but, you know …”

  “I appreciate everything you’ve done,” his mom murmured.

  “You understand, it’s pure concern,” Mary went on. The anger and confusion rushing through him was wild, chaotic. The white corridor walls seemed to be closing in on him. Patrick was struggling as hard as he could not to run around the corner and grab Mary by the shoulders and scream in her face, What the hell are you doing? Are you out of your fucking mind?

  “Thank you, Mary,” his mom said solemnly. “Thanks for being so concerned.”

  Patrick could hear footsteps and fumbling noises, clicking jewelry and the unmistakable sound of a kiss. Now she’s getting thanked for it, he thought incredulously. That fucking bitch—she sold me out and she’s getting a kiss on the cheek.

  “Found my passport,” Patrick said loudly, coming forward into the room.

  Patrick’s mother (in her standard taupe-colored Chanel suit) and Mary were standing very close to each other in the middle of the living room, near the grand piano—they both turned guiltily and looked at him as he came in, stepping quickly apart.

  “Oh, good,” Mary said loudly.

  “Honey,
is there anything else you need, now that you’re here?” Mom asked Patrick. He had to give her credit: her face looked completely normal, peaceful and human between her gold Henri Bendel earrings. The beast within was totally hidden. “Do you want to stay for dinner? Your father won’t be home until very late.”

  “No, that’s okay—thanks, Mom,” Patrick managed to say. He was still trembling with fury. He stared straight at his mother, at the trademark flat expression that made her such a devastating bridge opponent. “We actually have to go. Mary, you want to get the elevator? I just have to say goodbye.”

  “Sure—bye, Mrs. Dawes,” Mary said, heading immediately for the apartment’s front door, not lingering for another air kiss. Not pushing her luck, he thought. He didn’t want to look at her as she moved past, a brunette blur, and headed toward the vestibule to summon the elevator. “Patrick, I’m right outside—”

  Patrick and his mother locked eyes across the gigantic living room and it was like one of those old monster movies where the beast slowly emerges—Patrick could see his mother’s pupils glinting with fury as Mary’s footsteps receded and Mrs. Dawes’s genteel public mask fell away.

  “Mom,” he began helplessly, “I don’t know what she told you, but—”

  “Don’t even start,” his mom said tightly, stepping toward him and pointing at his chest with her finger, the way she’d been doing his entire life. “Don’t even think about it, you little punk. I knew I couldn’t trust you. I knew you’d break my heart.”

  “Mom—” Patrick’s thoughts were racing furiously. His behavior in the next ninety seconds was crucial: if he was going to successfully win his way back into his mother’s good graces, he had to choose his words carefully. So far, whenever Mom had reprimanded him—and had threatened to take away the golden goose—he’d always been able to talk her down.

  “Don’t ‘Mom’ me!” Mrs. Dawes’s eyes were now blazing so wildly that she could have been a soap-opera villainess—a realization that would have been funny under any other circumstances. “Damn it, Patrick, I’ve been nothing but kind, nothing but understanding of your—of your ugly, decadent habits. I know I’m supposed to be trendy and understand your ‘disease’ or whatever you want me to say, but I just can’t do it anymore. No mother could. Thank God for that girlfriend of yours, that’s all I can say.”

  Yeah, let’s hear it for Mary, Patrick thought. He felt like he was going to cry, not because he felt so helpless and angry—although he did—but because it just hurt to have your mother yell at you like this, call you a “little punk.” It didn’t matter how little you cared. It didn’t matter how old you got. It still hurt, every time, as much as it had when he was a boy. “Again, Mom,” he started over, “I don’t know what she told you, but Mary’s hardly a reliable—”

  “Stop it. Just stop this instant!” Patrick’s mother spoke through clenched teeth, stepping closer to him and glancing back at the front door through which Mary had exited. Because we can’t be seen fighting, he thought bitterly. It isn’t done. You can call me worthless, as long as nobody overhears, right, Mom? That painful feeling in his throat—the certainty that he was going to cry—had not gone away, and Patrick swallowed, still staring back at his mom. “I’m all done being manipulated by you! The free ride’s over. I want you out of the Peninsula by Saturday.”

  The words hit him like a smack in the face.

  “I’m calling what’s-his-name, Grayson, that manager, and cutting you off,” she went on. “I’m giving you until Saturday. Check-out time Saturday—I’ll make it very clear.”

  “What?”

  Patrick realized something right then: she was serious. He really had reached the end of the line.

  “You heard me,” Mrs. Dawes repeated, quietly, deliberately. “Patrick Kensington Dawes, you are cut off. No more payments. No more credit-card bills.”

  “But Mom—” Patrick could hear the helpless panic in his voice—the whine of the eight-year-old he used to be, who would argue against being punished; always trying to persuade his parents to take it back. I’m going to be doing this the rest of my life, he thought dismally. There’s just no escaping this family. “Where am I supposed to go? Where am I supposed to live?”

  “I don’t care!” Mrs. Dawes snapped, and Patrick realized she was close to tears herself. “I don’t care where you go, you … you junkie!”

  “Mom—” He was crying now too, and, more than anything else, he wanted to reach out to her, to touch her. “Mom, please don’t—”

  Mrs. Dawes flinched. “Get out of here,” she whispered. Her lower lip was trembling. “Don’t come back until you’ve straightened yourself out.”

  Then she turned away and Patrick turned to leave the apartment, his passport shoved pointlessly into his back pocket. He rubbed the tears from his chiseled face, feeling like a child who’d just been sent to his room without any dinner.

  “Oh, take a little longer,” Mary teased him when he emerged into the vestibule. She was leaning prettily on the open elevator door, holding its heavy brass edge. Her smile faded when she looked at him. “Everything all right?”

  Oh, you’ve got some nerve, Patrick thought dangerously. He stepped past her into the elevator and hoped she didn’t notice how his shoulders and arms were shaking with fury. You’ve got some nerve, Mary Shayne, I’ll give you that.

  “Everything’s fine,” he lied, still not looking at her. He stabbed the elevator button as the door rolled shut and they began to sink toward the ground floor.

  MARY DROPPED THE EMPTY Krylon spray can, staring at the word that was garishly painted across the striped silk wallpaper, feeling a hoarse tightness in her—Patrick’s—throat.

  The memory, Patrick’s memory, was somehow even worse than the others she’d experienced. Scott’s hopeless anger at being propelled all over the city with her schoolbooks, Joon’s fury at losing Patrick, Amy’s rage when her secret, fragile hopes were dashed so coldly—the searing psychological pain of enduring those experiences had been brutal. But this was different, somehow. Milder, yes, but worse, harder to face.

  I just screwed him over for no reason, Mary told herself, staring at the GOODBYE painted ten feet wide on the wall in front of her. She had assumed, as she’d come through this room, that the word was directed at her. But now she realized what Patrick had meant—what bitter message he was leaving on the wall of the Peninsula. And he’s going to be out on the street and it’s my fault. No wonder he hates me. No wonder.

  There was somebody else in the hotel suite.

  Mary froze, hunching her—Patrick’s—shoulders as she flicked her eyes back and forth. She was sure of it: she’d heard something coming from the bedroom. Looking at the base of the closed door, Mary could see shadows moving around—somebody was coming out of there. Mary looked around for a place to hide, but it was impossible; there simply wasn’t enough time before the bedroom door swung open.

  “Poor Dylan …,” Ellen sobbed, entering the room. “Oh my God, poor Dylan …”

  Mary stared at her, amazed.

  Her sister looked exactly as she had hours before, when this same room was packed with screaming, dancing, drinking people. But she also looked completely different. There you are, she thought incredulously, gazing across the smoke-filled room at her sister. The reason this all happened.

  Ellen’s eyes were red and raw, her face was deathly pale, and it was obvious she’d been crying. Tears had smeared her inexpertly applied mascara. Her mouth was twisted into an anguished grimace that Mary didn’t recognize at all.

  “Where are they, Patrick?” Ellen demanded—Mary saw fresh tears running down her face. “They called from the road. Joon called, like, three hours ago, from the road—why aren’t they here yet?”

  “What?” Mary heard Trick’s familiar voice croaking the word as she answered. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing—even though it made perfect sense.

  That’s who Joon called, Mary realized, remembering sitting in the backseat of Scott
’s car, watching Scott and Joon react to Dylan’s escape maneuver. She called Ellen.

  There was a part of Mary’s mind that, despite everything, simply couldn’t accept Ellen’s guilt—couldn’t imagine why Ellen had done what she’d done. But that part of her mind was losing the argument, and she knew it.

  “They’d better get here soon, because Mary’s on her way—it’s almost showtime,” Ellen muttered, pacing back and forth, clenching and unclenching her fists. “How did this all go so wrong?” She raised her glasses to wipe her streaming eyes.

  Mary stood against the vandalized wall, staring at Ellen, trying to think of anything she could say—anything she could ask. A glint of reflected light on the edge of her vision made her suddenly remember Patrick’s watch—looking down at it, she saw that it was 2:14 A.M.

  Ellen just called me, she realized, trying to keep the timing straight in her head. She called Real Mary, at home, and found out what happened to Dylan. That must have just happened.

  “How did Dylan get shot, Patrick?” Ellen’s voice had climbed into a register of hysteria that was frightening Mary badly. Her sister was nearly insane with desperate fear and rage. “How the hell did that happen? Can you figure it out?”

  “No,” Mary said, truthfully. She was running out of resolve—running out of reasons to keep struggling, to keep fighting to understand what had happened to her and how to stop it.

  (showtime)

  “I told Joon exactly what to do. I gave her Dylan’s address. I told her how to get to the fire escape, and she promised me she’d handle it.” Ellen looked at her own watch. “I hope … I just hope …”

  (showtime)

  Something about that word seemed familiar … and, just like that, Mary was recalling another of Patrick Dawes’s memories—

  THE SKY WAS A vast white dome far above the roof of the Chadwick School, featureless except for a tiny, barely visible flock of gulls high overhead. Patrick stood on the tarpaper with the others, gazing around at the tops of the elegant Upper East Side apartment buildings stretching off in all directions. Looking south, Patrick could just barely see the glittering towers of Midtown—he could even make out the very top of the Peninsula—and, turning his head to one side, he could see the deep emerald bed of Central Park, inlaid into the city like a precious stone in a piece of ornate jewelry.