by A. A. Vacco
With Strings Attached
For Andi: When you can't find the light, strike a match
a.a. vacco
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review. Trademarked names appear throughout this book. Rather than use a trademark symbol with every occurrence of a trademarked name, names are used in an editorial fashion, with no intention of infringement of the respective owner’s trademark. The information in this book is distributed on an “as is” basis, without warranty. Although every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this work, neither the author nor the publisher shall have any liability to any person or entity with respect to any loss or damage caused or alleged to be caused directly or indirectly by the information contained in this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Editor: Catherine Sloan
Preliminary editors: Katherine Walker, Allyssa Hartley, Amanda Michaud, Tracy Walsh
Part 1
1
New York City, NY, 1888
Frank faced the fire, the glow of the flames illuminating his figure. He elected to leave the electricity alone for the night. He and his wife made sure that their move to New York City was to include an electrically wired house, unlike the one they left back in Kansas. Both he and Myra were from a small town there. They decided to make the move east about a year after they married. Myra worked as a school teacher, and could easily uproot. Frank was a medical supplies salesman. The newest inventions were his to promote and New York City offered more clientele than anywhere in Kansas.
The move made sense, Frank reflected.
It wasn’t easy, especially their first few years out east, but once the cash flow picked up, and it did, they became the envy of the neighborhood. Their home, the furnishings, the lifestyle all fit a high standard and Frank was pleased with the way it all panned out. They truly had it all, Frank smiled as he inhaled the charred smell from the small, orange blaze in front of him.
Another figure became visible as the fire picked up. Frank started, then with a sigh, “Oh, Myra, Dear, it’s you! I didn’t see you. How long have you been sitting there?”
The slender silhouette of Myra remained still. She sat next to the brick fireplace clutching Lucy, a childhood doll that she often kept nearby. She took pride in making little outfits for the doll, playing with the coils of hair, and using it as a household decoration when she wasn’t fussing with it. Frank saw Lucy as Myra’s security blanket. But tonight, Myra wasn’t gently caressing the doll’s hair or mending a hem on the dress. Tonight, Myra was, well, it appeared she was wringing the doll’s neck. Slowly, rhythmically, Myra’s hands twisted under the porcelain head. Her posture remained motionless, including her arms. Just her wrists moving back and forth, back and forth. Frank felt a twinge of nausea.
“Myra," he ventured, “Is everything alright?”
Without meeting his eyes, Myra’s voice answered in a flat tone, “I want to go home.”
He sighed.
“We’ve been over this, Sweetheart, so many times. I’ve told you that moving home is backtracking. We can’t make the same money we do here. We won’t have the connections or the liberties the city affords us.”
He paused when the wringing quickened. “Think, Myra. You wanted to leave Kansas just as much as I did.”
Maintaining a cold, distant tone that Frank never heard before, she replied, “Yes, but that was then. People can change their minds, Francis.”
A chill prickled down Frank’s spine as Myra’s icy tone left an even more frigid silence. Never once had she used his full name. Even at their wedding, he was Frank, or Frankie. To him, she was Myra Jane or simply Myra. ‘Francis’ existed only on a birth certificate written thirty-five years ago, and forgotten ever since. “Myra, please consider this. We move back. We settle close to where we grew up. We live out our days visiting with family while raising our own. It’ll be the same cycle. There’s no growth prosperity! No change from when we were kids. It’ll just be a closed loop unless our kids move away.”
“I just want to go home.”
“Why? Why now? We never planned to return.”
“I just want to go home, Francis.”
Frank felt himself flush. “That’s not a good reason for backtracking. We got out, and we aren’t moving back. We have everything here. We have all we need to start our own family and our own life. We aren’t moving back, Myra. I’m sorry. But we made this choice together and this is how we are going to live it out.”
“We all have choices,” came the monotonous reply.
With a casual reach behind her back, Myra produced Frank’s revolver. He jumped. As soon as he moved, she aimed it at him.
“M...Myra, what—what the hell is wrong with you?” he yelled, his voice and hands shaking.
“I said I want to go home. If that can’t happen, which you stated that it won’t, then I want to restart.”
“You really think restarting works by shooting me?”
Myra shook her head. “No, you can stay and live this life. I’ll restart. Wherever I end up, I’ll make sure to find my way home. But I can’t do it here. Goodbye, Frank.”
Before Frank could process what was happening, Myra repositioned the gun. With one fluid movement, she pressed the barrel against her right temple and pulled the trigger. In horror, Frank watched her brains splatter against the adjacent wall. The doll, still gripped by her left hand, fell to the ground, soaked in blood.
2
Millerton, IL, 1984
Elle Carter coasted along the gravel road toward the park. The soft rustle of leaves mixed harmoniously with the warmth of the afternoon sun against her face. It was the last day of summer before her freshman year of high school. She knew this year would be a vast improvement from junior high but also that small towns keep the same people around until high school graduation. Therefore, the classroom dynamics would be predictable. At least there was more after school stuff she could join. She often embraced her inner nerd and hoped to find friends that would, too.
Her shift as a lifeguard at the town’s man-made beach didn’t start for another fifteen minutes. She stopped at the swing set and snacked on some apple slices. The summers were hot and humid, but the job paid well and it was either that or serve milkshakes at the local diner. The Sock Hop did offer air conditioning but the beach gave her a tan and a free swimsuit each year. Plus, she considered, I already know everyone in this town and the one over. I’d rather sit and watch them swim instead of waiting on them for eight hours a day.
Elle thought about working at the Marionette Mansion. To an outsider, it was a difficult place to explain. It was, like any run-down, ancient building dedicated to displaying historical dolls, notoriously spooky. Elle decided that even if she didn’t believe in ghosts, curses, hexes, witches, or any of the things people claimed made the mansion do the things it did, she wanted no part of it. Plus, her fluorescent skin would make people think she was one of the ghosts if she worked there. At the beach, she could count on a tan. And a free swimsuit.
With a final crunch, she finished her last apple slice, hopped back on the baby blue bike and pedaled toward the guard station. Echoes of laughter and splashes of water sounded before she could even see the shore. She set the bike against the brick building that stood at the entrance of the beach and enter
ed the small guard room on the opposite side. The station led straight onto the sand, but only after a four-foot drop down. There were stairs somewhere, but no one liked the walk to find them. The flimsy excuse for a screen door slammed behind her as her eyes adjusted to the room’s dim lighting. A series of worn desks lined each wall of the square shaped enclosure. The cream-colored brick walls trapped the warm air, making the humidity almost palpable. Elle guessed that they kept it this way so that the guards wouldn’t hang out in there longer than they needed to. The cement floor maintained a layer of sand at all times. Even if they scrubbed the place clean, there would always be that sandy grit atop the cement. Elle added her bag to the cluttered collection of her coworkers’ beach supplies and started to fill out her time card. Since there were always two guards stationed on the water’s edge, she wondered which spot she’d take this shift. “A four-foot cement wall encloses the sand area," Elle heard her manager’s voice explain.
She emerged from the guard room and turned to see Alex orienting a new guard to the layout of the beach. Elle jumped off the short wall and onto the sand to join them. “Let’s see," he gestured to the wall, then the sand area, “the sand area’s about twenty-five yards to the water’s edge. Then there are the two guard stands. Water to the ropes gradually gets deeper, eh, about five feet or so and after the roped area it drops off pretty quick. You can’t touch the bottom by the time you reach those rafts out there. They’re anchored down, but that was done years back. Since they haven’t drifted away, no one’s cared enough to see just how far down they go.”
Alex noticed Elle approaching and winked, then turned back to the little blonde with more layout information. “The guard station is at the center of it all. See that space next to it? We keep a third guard there to oversee the sand area. They keep backup watch on the swimmers. We take breaks every hour for fifteen minutes, except at three and six o’clock. Those breaks are half hour ones. There’s a diving board to the far right of the swimming area, and if swimmers are over there, we send the guard at the station over to make sure no one’s getting too rowdy.”
He paused and adjusted his sunglasses. “Mister-in-Charge," Elle’s mom always called him. The new girl nodded to Alex’s last remark. Elle knew everyone in the town, but this girl’s face was unfamiliar.
“Just move here?” Elle asked.
“Yeah, from Phoenix," replied the blonde.
Elle attempted to hide her shock at the low rasp of the girl’s voice. She stood just over five feet, Elle estimated, with a petite build. Her light hair and blue eyes completed the Barbie doll appearance, but the voice didn’t quite match.
Barbie doll laughed. “It’s ok, I get that a lot," she said.
“Apparently, I’m not too subtle," muttered Elle, feeling her cheeks redden.
“I’m Kat. My family just moved here. I’ll be starting high school out here this fall.”
“You mean tomorrow? I’m Elle, by the way.”
Kat smirked, “Yea, smart ass, tomorrow. So, I guess I’ll see ya there?”
Elle nodded. She meant to say more, but Alex cut her off.
“Ok, ok, get to work. The noon break is almost up.” Alex placed both hands around his mouth and yelled, “Break’s over! Swimmers can re-enter the water!” He turned to the girls. “Ellbea, take guard tower one. Kat, you’re at guard tower two.”
Elle’s full name, Eleanor Beatrice Carter, was unacceptable to her. There were few things in the world she truly loathed, and her name was one of them. The silver lining was the array of nicknames; Elle, which most people assumed was her first name based on Elle not telling them otherwise. Ellbea (El-bee) to those closest to her, which Elle felt honored the first and middle name without fully disclosing either one.
Kat and Elle headed toward the two guard stands on opposite sides of the shoreline. Alex resumed his cross-armed stance by the guard station. He watched Elle throw her dark hair into a messy knot, add aviators to her ensemble and settle in. Alex knew Elle for quite some time. They lived a few houses from each other. Alex was a few years older than Elle, but they rode the same bus and their parents were friends, so their paths often crossed. When Elle turned twelve, he recruited her to help out as a junior guard at the beach. He had her teach swim lessons and perform odd jobs on the grounds. Once she turned fourteen, he trusted her enough to work as a lifeguard and that’s how she spent this summer. He always felt protective of her, even though he knew she’d insist she could take care of herself. They were old friends with a fun dynamic and nothing more. Since their parents were close friends, the pair grew up as close to siblings as they could be without living under the same roof.
Elle felt protective over Alex too, but for different reasons. In 1984 rural Illinois, being anything other than a white, conservative Christian drove prejudices in all sorts of directions. Alex was a Christian, and Elle assumed more conservative than not, but his skin missed the white criteria by a mile. His family moved north from Georgia when he was five. Elle wished for all of their sakes that they kept going a little further. Alex was probably the first and only black guard at the beach, and Elle felt certain that the club owners would find any reason to fire him if he gave them the chance. Fortunately, he didn’t. He was a great student, hard worker, and all around good kid. But many in the town overlooked these qualities, mostly people over the age of forty, since the younger generation didn’t seem to care. It was the parents who often whispered comments and shot side glances to each other whenever Alex came by. Elle was thankful she was finally old enough to be in the same school as him, in case he needed backup. Elle of course noticed their physical differences, but that was never a criteria for her to like someone. Being different from someone was just a fact of life. It never impacted their friendship.
3
The first few weeks of school blurred for Elle. She joined the cross country team with three other kids. As pitiful as the team’s size appeared, it had doubled since last fall. The coach was thrilled. Kat started on the volleyball team and made friends with kids in her classes. Everyone else already had their cliques and dirt on one another, but she seemed to find her niche nonetheless. Kat lived about a quarter mile from Elle. The two rode their bikes to class as long as they could, planning to catch the bus once the winter winds of Illinois showed no mercy. The two quickly became close friends.
During one of the final tame days of autumn, the pair rode their bikes home from practice. “Hey, I was thinking,” started Kat.
“Never a good sign, but go on," said Elle.
“Screw off. I was thinking, we need winter jobs. We can’t lifeguard for like, four more months.”
“Yeah, I used to just work in the summers, but now that we’re in high school, college funding might be a smart move.” Elle reached to adjusted her backpack, and continued to steer the bike one-handed.
Kat nodded. “Does the club hire for odd job stuff in the winter? Like, can we lifeguard in the summer and keep the woods and grounds picked up in the winter?
With a laugh, Elle asked, “Do you know much about Illinois winters?” Assuming she didn’t, Elle continued, “Look, Phoenix, in about three weeks it’ll become ungodly cold and windy. Everything dies off, the ground becomes solid from being so cold, and just when you think it can’t get worse, it snows.”
“Oh, I’d love to see snow!”
“You’ll like it for the first day or so, then it sticks around, freezes, and turns the town a yucky, mucky mess. You’ll hate it like the rest of us.”
Kat glanced sideways at Elle. “Geez, bitch much? What else do you hate? Kittens? Glitter? The laughter of small children?”
Elle rolled her eyes and downshifted as they coasted toward their neighborhood. “No, no, it’s just a harsh, dreary time of year. You’ll see. Don’t want to get your hopes up and then have the cold reality of winter slap the sunshine off of your face.”
“So you figured you’d do it for me? You sweetie!” Kat clapped both hands as she balanced herself and continued t
o pedal forward.
“Show off,” said Elle, as she attempted the same maneuver. That lasted about two seconds before she almost spun out on some loose gravel.
“You’ll learn,” giggled Kat, as she whizzed past Elle, who had slowed down considerably given the circumstance.
When Elle caught back up to Kat, the two rode without saying much for a few blocks. Then, Kat suggested they stop at The Sock Hop for a milkshake and study time. The restaurant sat on the opposite side of the road from the entrance to their subdivision. If they turned toward the houses, they’d hit Kat’s first and then deeper into the neighborhood, Elle’s. But milkshakes would sound good for a limited time, so the two veered left and into the gravel parking lot.
The familiar fried food smell greeted them as they pushed through the front door. Kat headed for the counter to order the shakes (chocolate for both, but only hers with whipped cream) and Elle secured the right corner booth near the back of the place. The 1950’s style setting included a black and white tile floor, olive-green booths lining the dining area walls, and an ordering counter set up like a bar. The servers wore either poodle skirts or jeans rolled at the ankles. They served while wearing roller skates, a skill Kat and Elle envied, but knew they could never replicate. This limited their job options even further. The menu was simple: hotdogs, burgers, fries, shakes, and pickles. An era-appropriate jukebox stood in the corner opposite of Elle, but it remained silent for the time being. Jack, a senior at their school, greeted them and took Kat’s order. Elle spread out her math homework and started solving for x in one of twenty problems.
“Here,” said Kat, and she set the foamless shake in front of Elle, along with her change.
“Thanks Kit-Kat,” and Elle started slurping down the chocolate frost.
“How’s the math? God, I suck at math,” Kat said as slid into the opposite side of the booth.