by Amy Reed
I’ve never had to keep a secret before, and I don’t think it’s my strong suit. How do people handle the stress? Grandma can smell when I’m lying to her, and for a split second, I think maybe it’d be easier to just confess and get it over with. Caleb’s her son, and this is her house, so doesn’t the combination of those two things kind of give her the right to know he’s here? And maybe his being trapped would be the perfect opportunity to force them to make up, because they’d have no choice but to talk to each other. Kind of like on Sexy Sober Survivor—this is their desert island, and there’s no way off (unless they break their contract with the television station, which I guess isn’t applicable in this situation). Where else could Caleb go? He’s certainly not going to walk out the door in front of all the neighbors, especially not now with that black car sitting out there. It’d be impossible for him to run away. He’s basically our prisoner.
The truth is, the most likely scenario if I told Grandma that Caleb’s in the attic is she’d probably call all the news stations and Seattle PD and sell him to the highest bidder. Not to mention the fact that Caleb would kill me. So I guess I’m just going to keep him a secret until he’s ready to not be a secret anymore, at least until I die of a stress ulcer.
I climb upstairs and Caleb’s sitting in his spot by the window. He’s building some kind of nest with all the blankets Lydia and I brought up that has gotten so high, now only his head and the crooked lamp with the ripped lampshade I donated from my own bedroom poke out. The window doesn’t open, so the smell is becoming unpleasant. He says he’s still cold, even though Lydia and I already hauled up at least fifty blankets yesterday, even though he’s wearing a beanie and three sweaters and a coat and two scarves and long underwear and two pairs of sweatpants.
I have so many questions, but Caleb never wants to answer any of them. Questions, like news, are outlawed.
“What’s for dinner tonight?” Caleb says without taking his eyes off his laptop. The stubble on his face is on its way to turning into a real beard. He’s created a kind of hatch on the side of his blanket fort that he can open so I can give him stuff. He’s been binge-watching a documentary series about some smart and depressing topic I don’t understand. I can practically hear Grandma say, What, he thinks leaving Fog Harbor makes him some kind of goddamned intellectual?
“I don’t know,” I say. “I could go to Taco Hell and pick something up?” Lydia already told me not to bother her at work because she got in trouble the last time I stopped by, but this would give me a legitimate reason to be there.
“You know we can afford better food, right? You could go to a real restaurant and get takeout, maybe even food that has nutritional value. Would it kill you to bring me a salad once in a while?”
I am having a hard time wrapping my head around the fact that my uncle watches documentaries and eats salad. What other weird habits has he picked up since he’s been gone?
“Hey, I’m curious,” Caleb says, shutting the laptop that is sitting on what used to be my bedside table. “How much are you skimming off the top?”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t play dumb. How much extra are you taking for yourself when you get cash to buy me stuff?”
“Nothing,” I say. “I don’t take anything.”
Caleb looks at me for a long time, and I wonder if he can hear my heart beating out of my chest. He suddenly looks so much like Grandma, with that same grimace she gets when she tells me, “I can’t believe I got stuck with you.”
But instead what happens is Caleb starts laughing.
“Wow,” he says. “You’re serious.”
“Of course I’m serious.”
“Dude, I don’t give a shit. I have so much money, I wouldn’t even notice.”
“I don’t steal.”
“Yeah, well, you’re the only one. In, like, the whole world.” He shakes his head, like he’s disappointed in me for not stealing from him. “Man, she’s got you good.”
“Who?”
“Ma. She’s damn good at making a kid feel like he’s worth nothing, huh?”
I know we’re not really talking about money, but I’m not entirely sure what we’re talking about. The only thing I’m sure about is that it hurts.
There’s no way I’m going to let Caleb see me cry. He already thinks I’m the biggest wuss who’s ever lived, and I think he’s probably right.
“I just wanted to help,” I say. “I didn’t expect you to pay me.”
“How much do you think your time is worth?”
“I don’t know.” I’m holding my breath. I’m biting my lip. I will not cry in front of Caleb.
“Seriously. How much do you think you’re worth?”
I am holding everything so tight, I think my blood has stopped moving. I squint my eyes so no tears will come out, but I feel them, seeping into my eyelashes, and my throat hurts, and everything hurts.
I turn around so Caleb can’t see my face, but I can’t do anything about my shaking shoulders. I can’t do anything about the puffs of air coming out of my nose.
“Three hundred,” Caleb says to my back, and I could be imagining it, but his voice sounds softer.
“What?” I sniffle.
“That’s how much you’re going to pay yourself. Three hundred dollars a week.”
I whip around. “That’s more than Grandma makes some weeks.”
“Yeah, well, you’re worth more than her. Way more. Doesn’t take much.”
“That’s too much,” I say. “I’m barely even doing anything.”
“Dude, you are the world’s worst negotiator.” Caleb laughs, and I never thought an insult could make me feel so good. “It’s the least I can do for making you clean up my shit. Hey, the bucket needs emptying, by the way. It’s getting ripe in here.”
“What would I even do with that much money?”
“I don’t know. Buy some drugs. Have some fun. Eat a fucking salad. Take that feisty girlfriend of yours on a date or something. Do what people with money do. Speaking of drugs, did you get my weed yet?”
“I told you, I don’t know where to get it.”
“Just ask Gordon.”
“One-Armed Gordon?”
“Yes, of course One-Armed Gordon. Jesus, Billy. Do I have to do everything for you? And put some ice on your face, for fuck’s sake. You don’t want CPS sniffing around, do you?”
LYDIA
I WAS HOPING I’D NEVER have to bring Billy to the tragedy that is Larry’s bar, but it was pretty much inevitable. Now that I’ve refused to go to his place anymore, that doesn’t leave us many options. Today seemed like as good a day as any because it’s Halloween and Billy definitely needs a pick-me-up after getting bullied all day for being the only person who showed up to school in a costume besides a few nerdy freshmen dressed as unicorns and dragons, and some girls dressed as sexy nurses and sexy devils and even one sexy baby, which I found particularly creepy. Billy arrived in a weird old-timey outfit and a fake mustache, carrying a broken lantern. When I asked him who he was supposed to be, he was appalled that I didn’t recognize Hilliard Cod, the founding father of Rome. I mean, you can’t just let a guy walk home alone dressed like that.
Plus, there’s the fact that we’ve been pretty much inseparable for two months now, and he still hasn’t met Larry. I’m totally fine with this, but Billy is attached to certain ideas about arbitrary friendship milestones that he learned from sitcoms. He’s been begging to come to my house for weeks, and I finally gave in because after a while it’s no fun to watch anyone grovel, and honestly hanging out at Larry’s bar is probably a healthier environment for him than that attic with his uncle, which is a sad statement when you think about it. Our standards for healthy environments are pretty low.
“I’ve never been in a bar before,” Billy whispers excitedly as we enter. We rode the county bus here and even that seemed to excite him.
“I’m sorry this has to be your first bar experience,” I say. On the other hand, it may turn him off of
bars completely, which would probably be a good thing considering his family’s tendency toward going overboard with the mood-altering substances.
Larry’s got the place covered with Unicorns vs. Dragons–themed Halloween decorations. There’s a cardboard zombie unicorn guarding a cauldron full of candy on a table by the entrance. What looks like a miniature dragon skeleton hangs from the ceiling, along with tufts of white fluff that I’m guessing are supposed to be fog and/or dragon smoke.
“That’s Old Pete,” I say, pointing to the still figure in the corner booth. His beard is taking on a greenish hue. “Those are the other booths no one ever sits in. There’s the jukebox that no one ever uses. There are the old guys at the bar watching TV.” Billy looks disappointed. “I told you,” I say.
“I thought there would be more . . . glamour,” he says.
“But this is Carthage, Billy. You have to drive, like, a hundred miles before you find any glamour.”
“I see someone’s a big Unicorns vs. Dragons fan.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
We take a couple of stools at the empty end of the bar just as Larry steps out from the back, wearing the same cheap dragon costume from BigMart he’s worn for the last three Halloweens, which is basically a giant black onesie with a hood and a lumpy little tail. His wings are looking a bit droopy. “Well, hello there! You must be Bill!” he says, and I cringe at his enthusiasm. “Quite a shiner you got there.”
“Hello, sir,” says Billy, with a weird old-timey accent to match his costume. His lantern is long gone after a couple of guys played catch with it after third period and it smashed in the hallway. “Nice to meet you. I’d like a dirty martini.”
Larry and I both look at Billy like he’s lost his mind. He gets a big goofy grin on his face. “I just always wanted to say that. I don’t even know what a dirty martini is.”
Larry laughs. I knew he’d love Billy. He has a soft spot for people who say weird stuff and smile for no reason. “How about a pop?”
“Can I have a cherry in it?”
“Absolutely.”
“How about two cherries?”
“Now you’re pushing it,” Larry says with a smile.
Larry busies himself with something while the three guys at the other end of the bar stare at us. “You’re that Sloat boy,” one of them says, with a slur in his voice.
“You heard from your uncle?” says another one.
“Um, no?” Billy says, popping a maraschino cherry into his mouth. I’m pretty sure it’s from the same bowl that’s been sitting behind the bar since I was twelve. “Mmm, this is delicious. I used to get a jar of these for Christmas every year. It was my favorite gift.”
“Pretty nice reward they’re offering,” one of the guys says.
“But you don’t get them anymore?” I say to Billy. One thing I’ve learned is you’ve got to ignore drunk men or they’ll just keep talking to you.
“We don’t really do Christmas at my house,” he says, looking at the TV. “We used to go to my great-aunt’s house in Shelton for dinner, but Grandma says we’re not doing that anymore because all Aunt Cynthia does is rub in her face how much better her life is than Grandma’s.”
“Is it?”
“I don’t know. They both seem pretty miserable, if you ask me. But Aunt Cynthia’s husband isn’t dead and her kids play soccer and her house is a lot nicer than ours, and they live in one of those neighborhoods where everyone decorates their houses for Christmas with, like, a million lights and ten-foot-tall inflatable Santas.”
“Sounds tacky,” I say, stirring my drink.
“I think it’s pretty,” Billy says, and I immediately feel bad. “Do you think your dad would give me another cherry?”
I reach over the counter and put the whole bowl in front of Billy. “Here,” I say. “Knock yourself out.”
“Wouldn’t it be nice to have a family you actually looked forward to seeing?” Billy says as he pops another cherry into his mouth, closes his eyes, and smiles. “I think these are my favorite food.”
“We don’t really do Christmas either,” I say. “Larry has to keep the bar open for these losers.”
“So, Bill,” Larry says, the plush dragon head on top of his onesie bouncing as he walks toward us. “Can I get straight with you?”
“Um, okay?”
“What are your intentions with my daughter?”
“Jesus, Larry!” I say.
“Uh, I think we were going to have a campfire?” Billy says. “We got marshmallows.”
“Larry,” I say, using my best adult-scolding voice. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
“But are you planning to woo her?” Larry says. Billy looks like he’s going to throw up from nerves. He shakes his head and takes a sip of his soda.
Larry squints his eyes and looks like he’s thinking hard about something. “Don’t hurt yourself, Larry,” I say.
Then he smiles an actually pretty nice smile. He leans in close to Billy and whispers, “I get it, kid. I’m a progressive guy. No need to hide in the closet here.”
“That’s it. We’re leaving,” I say, hopping off the stool. What is wrong with people that they assume a guy is gay just because he’s capable of being friends with a girl? Billy sits there smiling, like he hasn’t quite figured out what Larry’s implying because he’s too busy enjoying the fact that an adult is speaking to him kindly.
“Honestly,” Larry says, “I couldn’t be happier. Now I don’t have to worry about my daughter getting pregnant.”
“Come on, Billy.” I tug on his arm. “We’re going.”
“Wait, I want to see this real quick,” Billy says.
“Turn it up, Larry,” says one of the guys at the bar. “Sasquatch in the news again.”
The TV news lady is saying something about a bunch of recent sightings in the Olympic Peninsula, but this time it’s black instead of the usual brown and some say as big as a bus.
“That’s a big Sasquatch,” says one of the guys.
“It sounds like what I saw in the forest the day of the tornado,” Billy whispers.
“Let’s go start the fire,” I say. “We have a whole bag of marshmallows to eat.”
But his eyes are glued to the TV like everyone else’s. “Local experts think it may be a mutated species of grizzly bear that migrated down from Canada after the Kamloops nuclear reactor meltdown two years ago,” the news lady says, and everyone at the bar nods in tandem. “In other news, Caleb Sloat has reportedly been sighted at a mosque in Istanbul. The King has agreed to delay plans to bomb the region until the lead singer of Rainy Day Knife Fight can be safely brought home.”
“That’s quite a swim,” says Larry. “All the way across the Strait of Juan de Fuca.”
“He’s a good swimmer, that Sasquatch,” says one of the guys, nodding sagely.
“Jesus Christ,” I say. “I can’t take any more of this.”
“Tell me something, Bill,” Larry says. “Have you read Unicorns vs. Dragons?”
“Larry, stop!” I say, maybe a little louder than necessary. Old Pete burps over in his booth.
“Okay, fine,” Larry says. “But how about Samhain? Do you know about Samhain?” He pronounces it saah-win, which, according to him, is how real witches pronounce it.
“What’s that?” Billy says.
“No,” I say, standing up. “Don’t encourage him, Billy.” Larry’s Wiccan phase was even worse than his ongoing Unicorns vs. Dragons obsession.
“Samhain is the ancient pagan holiday marking a time when the boundary between this world and the spirit world thins and can be more easily crossed. It’s where Halloween gets its origins.”
“Um, okay?” Billy says.
“It is an excellent night for a fire. If you’d like, I can tell you some incantations you can use to summon the spirits. If there are any souls of the dead you’d like to communicate with, it’s a great time to do that.”
Billy looks at me with a raw, terrifying hope in
his eyes, and my heart sinks to my stomach. This is how people get brainwashed and believe in lies. Because they’re desperate for the impossible to be possible.
“We’re good, Larry,” I say. “We don’t need any magic. We just want to roast some goddamned marshmallows.” As I pull Billy off his barstool, I can feel him trying to hold on.
The freezing cold has let up, and it’s actually a nice night, for a change. For the first time in weeks there are no clouds in the sky. The moon is full and extra bright. A warm fire crackles in front of us, the river rushes behind the trees, and we’re eating crispy, melty balls of sugar, but even that isn’t cheering Billy up from his sudden bout of moping, thanks to Larry and his talking-to-dead-people nonsense.
I add a couple of logs to the fire. It hisses and pops as we sit on old chairs on either side of it, left over from Larry’s sad attempt a few years ago to create an outdoor patio, but even on nice days his customers just want to sit inside and watch TV. Billy and I face each other, the orange, dancing light projecting onto our faces and the wall of trees around us, making patterns that almost look like things.
“It’s nice out here,” I say.
“Yeah,” Billy says, but I can tell he doesn’t mean it.
“Did you want to stay inside?”
“Not really,” he says. “I don’t know. I feel sad in both places.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m thinking about my mom.”
“Oh.”
“I should be happy,” Billy says.
I don’t mean to, but a laugh escapes my mouth. “Why?” I say. What do any of us have to be happy about?
“My uncle came back. That’s all I’ve wanted ever since he left. But it’s nothing like I hoped it would be.”
“What did you hope it would be?”
“I guess I wanted things to be like they were when I was little. I wanted to go back in time. I know that’s impossible.”
Billy looks up at me, the fire dancing in his eyes, and he looks like someone possessed, like it is more than just a reflection, but something coming from inside. “I just want a family,” he says, and then his tears start flowing, and I swear the fire jumps and gets hotter, and I feel it in my chest, heavy and dense and burning, like a miniature sun the shape of my heart.