“Please don’t take offense at this,” she says. “There’s certainly nothing wrong with being a delivery person, but you don’t seem like the usual sort of delivery guy, Dignon. To tell you the truth you seem more like an English teacher.”
“Most of us aren’t what we should be. We’re just what we end up.”
“It’s never too late you know.”
“I sort of fell into it,” he admits. “I never thought I’d work there forever, I figured it’d be temporary. But before I knew it I’d been working there for years. Only good thing was, it made me quit smoking. Lugging those boxes and being out of breath wasn’t cutting it. Of course then I gained about a million pounds because instead of lighting up I ate nonstop for a year. Wasn’t long after that I realized I was probably going to be working there the rest of my life. If it hadn’t been for what happened to Jackie Shine, I probably would’ve.”
“That had to be terrifying.”
“I try not to think about it.”
Taking the hint, she revisits the previous topic. “So you never met anyone else after you and Lisa broke up?”
“I dated a few women, but nothing serious. I always thought I’d meet someone eventually. When it didn’t happen, after a while I just stopped trying.” He sits up straighter in an effort to better hide his gut. “I let myself go. More routines, fell into the same kind of thing in my personal life and eventually I got so used to the way things were it wasn’t that big of a deal. At least I’ve always had Tibbs.”
“I’ll have to meet him one of these days.”
“He’d like that.”
“What do you plan to do now?”
“Still trying to figure that out. I don’t want my old job back, that’s over.”
“Have you ever thought about going back to school?”
“Not really.”
“Maybe you should.”
“What about you?”
Apparently amused by the question, Bree leans forward, legs still crossed but torso closer to him, her chin resting in the palm of one hand, the glass of wine held down by her waist with the other. “What about me?”
“Have you always done what you’re doing now?”
“I had other jobs right after college, but otherwise, yeah.”
“Don’t you ever get tired of having to move so much?”
“Sometimes, but it can be really interesting too. I’ve seen so many different and amazing places, known so many fascinating people. I’m always experiencing new things and learning, growing as a person, and that’s important to me.” The wind whips and the building trembles, reminds them they are not alone in the universe. “But other times it’s like when I was a kid and my father would get transferred from base to base. I move somewhere, get settled in, and the minute I get comfortable, make friends and have a life, it’s time to go. It can be difficult, but it’s the life I’ve always had, and as you said, we all get used to things and fall into routines, good and bad.”
“Have you ever been married?”
“I’ve been asked quite a few times.”
“I bet.”
“I’ve had some serious relationships—and some not so serious—but I’ve never met anyone I could actually see myself settling down and being with forever. I wonder sometimes if maybe that’s just not in the cards for me. Plus, God knows I’ve made some bad choices when it comes to men.”
“After meeting Kyle I never would’ve guessed that.”
“Hilarious.” She smirks lightheartedly. “Believe it or not, when I met him he really was nice. He just got so controlling and obsessive about everything it was ridiculous. I don’t need that. I prefer an adult relationship, not one that makes me feel like I’m back in junior high with some jealous, testosterone-gone-crazy teenager.”
“So now you’re testing the waters with balding unemployed fat guys?”
He expects her to laugh. She doesn’t.
“Dignon, I’ve known a lot of people, some nice and some not so nice. One thing I’ve learned is that what really matters in this life has absolutely nothing to do with all the things we’re told and led to believe.” She takes her hand, presses it between her breasts. “It’s what’s in here that counts. It’s who you are deep in your soul. The rest of it’s all window-dressing, completely meaningless bullshit that at the end of the day is short-lived and facile at best.”
“That’s true,” is what he says, but in his mind he knows the reality is someone like Bree can never be interested in someone like him as anything other than a friend. “But usually the people who figure that out are alone.”
“That’s why it’s nice to have friends.”
“Good ole friends.”
She seems perplexed by his sarcasm. “Friends is a good place to start, don’t you think?”
He makes himself smile, raises his wine glass. “Sure.”
“Maybe it’s time you allowed yourself some happiness.”
“I’ve never disallowed it. Just can’t ever seem to find it, but please don’t feel sorry for me, OK? Anything but that.”
For the first time Bree’s demeanor turns sullen. “You make an awful lot of assumptions. I know it’s probably just a defense mechanism on your part, but I’m not out to hurt you and I’m not making judgments or trying to be pious or unrealistic about how the world works at all. I’m just trying to be your friend.”
“Why?”
“Is there some reason I shouldn’t be?”
Still unable to believe he’s been so open and has sustained a conversation of this depth with her, he allots himself some time to think about her question before answering it. “Women like you don’t usually pay attention to me.”
“Women like me. I see.”
“No, don’t—I’m not explaining it right.”
“You think I’m on some mission of mercy, is that it?” She shakes her head. “I don’t know if I should be insulted or if you’re just a master of self-deprecation.”
Dignon finishes his wine. Stop talking you shit-for-brains, he thinks, you’re blowing it. “I’m sorry,” he says a moment later. “I don’t—I’m not very good at this sort of thing.”
“What sort of thing?”
“All of this.” Rather than put his empty wineglass aside, he continues to clutch it as a means of occupying his hands. “I’ve spent a good part of my life feeling like a total nonentity, you know? And then you come along and you’re beautiful and smart and funny and I’m used to women acting as if I don’t even exist, so this is all a little overwhelming, that’s all. In a good way, though, I don’t mean anything by it, I’m just not used to anyone wanting to be my friend, much less someone like you and—I’m an idiot, sorry, I—”
“Stop,” she says, taking his goblet from him and placing it, along with hers, on the coffee table. “Relax, OK? I told you, this is fate. We were meant to meet and become friends, I believe that. And all because of that silly book, can you imagine?”
“Maybe we’re both mythical beings in a mortal world and don’t know it.”
“Wouldn’t that be fun,” she says with a wink. “Want some more wine?”
Dignon looks behind them, to the windows in the kitchen. “I’d love to, but I better check on how it’s doing out there. If it’s still coming down as heavy as it was I should probably get going soon. I don’t want Tibbs to be stranded all alone.”
“It’s sweet the way you love him so much. Most men are too busy trying to be macho to admit something like that. It’s refreshing to meet a guy comfortable being open about that side of himself.” She cocks her head toward the windows. “Come on, let’s have a look.”
Dignon is reminded of when he and Willie were children, and how they’d bound out of bed on snowy winter mornings in the hope that there might be enough to call off school. What he and Bree find is the same steady snowfall as before, only now they can hear plows stalking the nearby streets, grumbling about and moving that which has already accumulated in an attempt to keep up with what is yet to
come.
“Pretty nasty out there,” Bree says. “It’s supposed to tail off soon though.”
“I better go.”
“Want me to call you a cab?”
“I’ll be fine.” He offers his hand. “Thanks for lunch. I had a really good time.”
She smiles, takes his hand. “Me too, I’m so glad we did this.”
Though he doesn’t want to let go of her, he does, forcing his hand back to his side. Before he can think of something else to say, she leans in and kisses him on the cheek. He smells her cologne and a trace of what might be hairspray, and feels himself blush like some ludicrous schoolboy. “Maybe we could have dinner some time or,” he clears his throat, the awkwardness and uncertainty he’d thought conquered suddenly back with a vengeance, “go see a movie or something.”
“Definitely,” she says, “call me, I’d love to.”
She goes to get his coat, and as he returns to the den he allows himself a quick glance at the closed door just off the room. It can only be her bedroom. Something stirs in him and he looks away. The Valium and wine is wearing off. Insecurity and fear creeps back, coils around him like a snake, tightening slowly but powerfully. Maybe his father’s still prowling through the snow, he thinks. Or maybe whoever followed him here is still waiting down on the street after all this time, ready to resume their game.
“Are you OK?” Bree appears next to him, holds up his coat.
He nods, takes it from her and slips into it. “Thanks.”
“You looked so intense just then. Did I miss something?”
“Just thinking about the walk home,” he says as anxiety rises in him. This latest wave has come so quickly he has no time to prepare or defend against it. He has to leave. It’s time for him to go. Now, right now. He needs to get outside in the cold air and let it clear his head.
“I meant to ask you before,” Bree says as she walks him to the door, “did you ever get a chance to read Mythical Beings in a Mortal World?”
She is at once frightening and beautiful. What has happened to change things so quickly? Surely this is an innocent question, isn’t it? His mind sprints, tries to make sense of this sudden surge of panic. “Only a few pages,” he answers.
“I think I’m going to have another glass of wine and curl up with it right now. I’ve read it before, of course, but it’s fascinating—if you’re into that sort of thing—and this is as good a day as any to stay in and hunker down with a good book.”
“Yes,” he says blandly.
“Be careful out there.” She opens the door, leans against the frame. “Call me, OK?”
“I will.”
She studies him. “You sure you’re all right? You look a little peaked.”
“Just tired.” He steps into the hallway. “See you soon.”
“Take care.”
Dignon can feel her eyes on him until he slips into the pools of darkness at the far end of the hallway.
In the lobby, he looks through the glass doors before venturing out. The streetlights have come on early. A row of them cover several blocks, glowing through the whiteout, beacons in the cold to lead him home. He wonders if somewhere out there someone else is looking at those streetlights thinking the same thing.
His breath collects against the door.
Outside waits the storm, and all it conceals.
TEN
Through the endless white and cold, through the wind and spray of snow, he sees him standing at the corner. Like he’s been waiting all this time, a frozen sentinel covered in snow and sleet, hands at his sides, staring straight ahead, a dark smudge on an otherwise empty canvas, he watches.
Still not certain of the man’s identity, Dignon crosses the street and slowly approaches the last stretch of pavement before the steps to his apartment. He hesitates then comes to a complete stop just prior to the curb, realizing now who this is. The man’s face is caked with ice and snow, his flesh pale, his eyes bloodshot and savaged with dark circles and bags. Though he still looks dangerous if angered—perhaps even more so than before—he has also acquired a look of exhaustion and despondency. Less a man in search of a fight and more one who has already had the fight beaten out of him; it is evident something more has happened since the last time Dignon saw him.
Something horrible.
“You should’ve listened to me,” Kyle says, his voice raspy and raw, as if he’s spent the last several hours screaming. “You should’ve listened.”
“Why are you following me?”
“I knew you’d end up over there.”
The street is quiet, typical city sounds absent in the storm. Somewhere in the distance the rumble of a plow echoes, but otherwise, there is silence.
“Look, we…” Dignon glances around uneasily. “We’re just friends.”
“You’re playing around with somebody way out of your league.”
“I’m not playing around with anybody.”
“There’s going to come a time when you’ll wish you’d listened to me.”
“I hardly know her, OK?”
“But she knows you.”
Dignon gauges the distance between Kyle and the steps. If he walks briskly past him he could probably make it to the door before he caught him. But then what? “What do you want?”
“Stay away from her.”
“OK.”
Kyle moves for the first time, but he’s sluggish now, not strong and strutting like last time. “Are you being a wiseass?”
“No, leave me alone,” Dignon says before really thinking it through. “I’ve got enough problems. I don’t need you following me around threatening me.”
“I’m not threatening you.” He takes a step closer. “I’m trying to help you.”
“Well thank you, but I don’t need your help.”
“You’ve really got no clue, do you?” Kyle nervously scratches his ear, the tip of his finger lingering as if adjusting something within. “She’s not human.”
“I have to go.”
“She gets inside you, in your head, under your skin and—and you can’t get her out. She drives you crazy. She’s all you’ll think about day and night until you can’t take it anymore and then…” He staggers away then falls against a light post. Again he picks at his ear, and this time pulls free a small scrap of dark substance. He looks down at it with a blank stare. “Have you heard it yet?”
“Heard what?”
Kyle smiles. “When you do—and trust me, you will—get yourself something to block your ears with. I use this.” He holds out the tiny glob of material he pulled from his ear. “Beeswax. It doesn’t totally stop it because you can still hear a little, but it makes it better.”
Sirens’ singing is so enticing it often lures sailors to rocky shorelines where they shipwreck and drown. To avoid this, Ulysses once had his crew plug their ears with beeswax.
Astonished, Dignon asks, “How did you know to do that?”
“Same way you learned about it, how do you think?” He pushes it back into his ear, looks in the direction of the corner and squints through the snow. “I’m so goddamned tired.”
“The book—Mythical Beings in—”
“That’s how she does it, with that book. It’s no mistake. It’s how she draws you in, like bait. She throws the lure out there and sees what it catches. That’s how you met her too, right? And let me guess, you thought it was all your idea, didn’t you? You think it’s just chance or fate, she’ll tell you it is if she hasn’t already, but it’s not, man, it’s not.”
Rattled and uncertain, Dignon also feels an ironic sense of relief. He’s not the only one who has allowed such wild thoughts into his head. But just because Kyle experiences them too, does it mean Bree is what he claims she is: something horrific and impossible that can only exist in the realm of fantasy and madness?
“Get as far away from her as you can and you might still have a chance,” Kyle says. “It’s too late for me, I can’t stop her. I’ve tried, I can’t. She’s inside me too dee
p.” He pushes himself away from the streetlight. “I know. You think I’m nuts. I am. She drives you to it, it’s what she does. The impossible is what gives her power. Bree Harper is exactly what you think she is, what you know deep in your heart she is, what your instincts are telling you she is. If you don’t believe me, look closer, deeper. You’ll find things don’t add up. She’s a liar, it’s all a lie. Think about it, man, just stop and think about it. Doesn’t it all seem to be happening a little too fast, a little too easily? Isn’t it all just falling into place perfectly? Doesn’t it seem like the whole thing’s a big hand-job, a setup?”
Brow knit, Dignon nods.
“That’s because it is.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Doesn’t make any difference now, it’s already over for me.”
Tiny specks of ice tickle Dignon’s face. “We can’t stay out here, we’ll freeze.” He considers Kyle a moment then motions to his apartment. “You want to come in? You could call a taxi or something.”
Though suddenly distracted, Kyle seems genuinely touched by the offer. “You’re a decent guy,” he says, emotion softening his previously callus expression. “You don’t stand a fucking chance.”
* * *
He’s gone, devoured by the storm, forgotten.
To be sure, Dignon watches from the safety of his apartment a while longer, but there’s no sign of Kyle out there. He turns from the window, goes to the kitchen and gets himself a beer. From the couch, Mr. Tibbs briefly considers him between yawns.
Sealed off from the world on this late afternoon, the apartment is like a tomb sheltering them from the snowstorm. Even Mrs. Rogo’s apartment is silent. No Christmas tunes, no food smells, no blinking tree lights in the front downstairs window. She must be out. But in this, where?
Dignon imagines the apartment is a spacecraft that has crashed on an alien planet. Stranded in this strange world of ice and snow, he and Mr. Tibbs must hunker down inside their crippled ship to wait out the storm. But what if the storm never ends?
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