by Amber Foxx
Would she understand what had happened to him today? He didn’t, other than he’d finally felt it. Felt his full rage at Jill and at Kandy’s death and his part in it, even at Kandy herself for drinking and dying, for leaving him. He had no words for what he wanted to tell her, but there was music. Hours of music until his fingers were cold and his right hand began to fail him. For the first time since he’d almost died in the lake, he created new songs.
In the morning, he barely woke in time for therapy. A hot thread of anger at Jill was the only thing that pulled him out of bed. His exhaustion bothered him. He’d had almost four hours of sleep during the day, and then four at night. It should count for eight. He told Gorman this, and got a raised eyebrow, a click of the rings. Jamie picked up where they had left off in the hotel office. Kandy.
In yoga class, his balance was off and every old injury ached as if he’d turned sixty, not twenty-nine. He fell out of poses. Gwen told him to stop pushing himself and do less. He feared he might break if he let go of the struggle, but he didn’t. As he released his quivering body from a twist, the strange conviction arose that in his unraveling, he was getting better. Getting closer to the center of the knot.
Wendy’s message was waiting when he turned his phone on after class. “Hope you’re feeling better today. Meet me for lunch at my office. We have a little mess to clean up.”
New to music management, Wendy kept her day job as a mid-level manager at a luxury hotel near the Plaza. Jamie briefly imagined a bulletin going out to all Santa Fe hotels warning them to ban him, but the front desk clerk ignored him as he passed through the Spanish Colonial style lobby and took the stairs to the lower level. In her coral-walled office with its shelves of Acoma pottery, Wendy was having lunch at her desk with Andrea, and they were laughing as he walked in.
“What’s funny?” Half-afraid that it might be him, he stalled in the doorway.
Andrea stuck her fork into the huge salad she and Wendy were sharing. “Jill’s drum circle.”
“Fuck. You got in? In one day?”
She nodded and ate the bite of salad. “She rushed me through the process so I could join last night. They meet on Sundays. It was so stupid. I had to”—she giggled— “lie on the floor in the middle of Jill’s living room, while these middle-aged white women in expensive clothes circled me”—she burst out laughing again, and stood up, mimed holding a hand drum, and side-stepped in a steady rhythm—“beating this boom, boom, boom. And I was supposed to—”
Wendy cut in with a little whoop of hilarity, “Find her animal and her ancestor.”
“I was supposed to have a vision.” Andrea sat back down, sipped her iced tea, and took another bite of her lunch. “And then not tell anyone, or they could harm me by harming my animal. Can you believe that? It’s like a guarantee that no one has to lie when nothing happens.”
Wendy gestured to a sandwich, a salad, and a lemon-garnished glass of water on the coffee table. “I got you lunch. Light and healthy.”
Jamie sank onto the love seat and regarded the lunch. Crusty white bread. He hated crusty white bread. He picked at the clear plastic wrap that bunched up under the edge of the plates. “Thanks.”
It suddenly struck him that Andrea had only been amused. Not scared, not challenged. Had Dahlia left for LA already? “Jill’s pet vampire wasn’t there, was she?”
“Dahlia? No.” Andrea turned toward Jamie. “It was weird. Mae made her sound like this mean little witch, but Jill made her sound so fragile. Poor little Dahlia was home in bed with a migraine. She gets laid up for days, she’s so sensitive.”
“Migraine? That’s a load of crap. She’s in LA modeling for some lipstick ad.”
“You’re kidding. Jill thinks Dahlia is living off her parents’ life insurance and is so depressed she can’t work. Jill was bragging about how she’s empowering her, helping her recover.”
“Nah. She’s using her for something. Of course, she’d do that even if she thinks Dahlia really is that frail little thing.” He wadded up the wrap from his lunch. Could he say this? “It’s what she did with my friend who died.”
Andrea’s puzzled look said she had no idea what he was talking about. “Who?”
His words scraped at his soul like sandpaper dragging over his cactus-pierced skin. “Girl who died at Jill’s retreat. Kandy Kahee. Years back ...”
His edges were fraying. He was supposed to say what he felt. What did he feel? “Um. Sorry. Makes me sad to talk about it. Or mad. Something.” He took a break, sat up straight and put a hand on his belly to feel his breath. It calmed him down enough to get the words out and remain intact. “Jill uses everybody. She wants to use you to get to me, and she wants to use Dahlia for something—she has to. She doesn’t have any good motives.”
“Maybe so,” Wendy said, “but you’d better not make any more waves with her. I’ve got enough on my hands with your freak-out yesterday. Let me show you what I asked you here to talk about.” Wendy typed something on her computer and turned the monitor to face Jamie. A YouTube video showed him talking with Jill and then jerking his hands back into the cactus. An argument obviously, but no words were audible. Jill looked calm, Jamie furious, and then—no getting past it—crazy.
The camera hadn’t picked up Kate’s approach with her dog. It focused on Jamie. In his breath-starved, weak-legged, heart-thundering terror, dark edges narrowing his vision, blood pounding in his ears, he’d had no idea how he’d appeared. He’d been so overwhelmed by his impotent rage at Jill and his double-panic at the thorns and the dog, it had been like a storm blowing through his body. Gorman was right, of course. It was more than a panic attack. Jamie didn’t yet understand the layers of what he’d done, but at some level he’d sought the pain piercing his skin even while it scared him, even while it was more accidental than intentional.
He stared at his image on the screen. Jesus. I am not a well man.
Wendy turned the monitor back to its usual position. “You’re getting a lot of buzz. Some people think it was a publicity stunt. Some think you’re having a total breakdown. You should read the comments. ‘Crisis type of shamanic emergence?’ I don’t know what that means.”
“Fucking Jill crap.”
“And then there’s ‘Jangarrai vs. Jill Betts and cacti. Jill, one, cacti, three, Jangarrai zero.’ ” She made a few clicks, frowning at the screen. “Then we get someone guessing that you and Jill staged it to build up to some kind of shamanic healing she’ll do with you at Spirit World Fair. It’s totally stupid, but it’s out there.”
Jamie forced himself out of a fog of amazement. “How can anyone think that? No one would stage this.”
“The thorns don’t show in the video.”
“Still. No one in his right mind goes tearing into cacti for effect—”
“No one in his right mind does that for any reason. I’m worried about you, not just this rumor nonsense. You’ve got almost two weeks until the fair. Are you going to hold up?”
Was he? Jamie felt weak. He’d worked hard this morning in therapy and yoga, but that video said he was weak—and crazy. Getting well was going to take forever. Forever. He craved chocolate chip cookies and a whole pint of vanilla soy ice cream, but all he had was this lunch. Light and healthy. Slowly, as if he’d never tasted food before, he bit into the Portobello sandwich. The bread was tough and splintery, the mushroom over-salted. He set it down and poked at the salad. At least no one could ruin a raw vegetable. He forked a cucumber slice.
Wendy said, “They got the college location and Heather is putting in a twelve-hour day today to get the publicity out. With your face on the posters. What are we going to say about your scene?”
Jamie couldn’t answer. Wendy sounded like she was talking in another room. Reality had slipped. Light was fractured, sensation remote. Kandy seemed to be sitting across from him on the floor, her elbows on the coffee table. She took the cucumber and licked it, and put it back on his fork. How far off the deep end had he gone?
&
nbsp; Kandy faded. In her place he suddenly saw himself in his hefty college-age body, with his dyed-dark hair and operatic ambitions, his badly medicated anxiety and desperate needs. Her Big Buddy. She’d seen something worth loving in him then, when he couldn’t see it in himself. His guilt and rage over Kandy collapsed, a decayed roof falling, letting in light.
“Jamie?” Wendy’s voice broke through to him. “What’s the matter?”
He realized he was crying, with his fork stuck in a vegetable. It had to look insane, even for him. “Nothing.” He dropped the fork and wiped his tears with his napkin. “Not hungry, though.”
“Then you are not all right.” This made them both laugh a little. She came over and sat beside him. “Listen to me. If you really are having a crisis—”
“Nah, I’m fine. No worries.”
Wendy sounded doubtful. “If you say so.”
He blew his nose and pitched the napkin into the trash. “Let’s deal with my cactus problem.”
“Kate wants to make that scene into a mystery that you’ll explain at the fair. She says just hold off, build up the curiosity, and then you can say anything you want, and so can Jill. The truth, part of it, next to nothing, it’s up to you. She doesn’t even care if you and Jill tell the same story, so long as you both wait. It’ll draw interest in the fair. I can’t let her do that if you’re not well, though. I’m not exploiting a mental breakdown.”
Kate was. Or was she? As emcee, Jamie was on first. As a featured speaker, Jill came later. Jamie would be back onstage again and again, for two days. Jill would have an audience only once. “Did Jill agree to this?” He couldn’t believe she would.
“I talked with her agent. He says she did.”
“Fuck me dead.” Jill probably thought Jamie had fallen apart too much to do the show, or that he was too emotionally damaged to be credible no matter what he said. Thought she’d get the last word, and it could be her shamanic emergence crap. He couldn’t let that happen. “I’ve gotta do it, too, then.”
“What are you going to say, once you’ve got an audience?”
“Dunno.” He ate the cucumber. It was hard to swallow. “Got two weeks. I’ll think of something.”
Chapter Thirty
Minutes after the furniture delivery truck left, a red Fusion hybrid pulled into the driveway in front of Jamie’s duplex. Mae came out the front door to see who it was. Jamie was in the passenger seat, looking down, hands busy. Addie got out the driver’s side, standing in the angle of the open door and drumming her fingers on it. “Ask me what took so long.”
“Okay.” Mae wanted to know, but it would have been rude to ask Addie directly without the invitation. Jamie should have met her before the furniture arrived. “What took so long?”
“He had to go back and get the bloody cat. But first he had to give him his treatment. Crikey.”
People really said crikey? “You missed all the fun. Furniture guys already came and went.”
Jamie emerged, Gasser in his arms. “Fuck—sorry to stick you with you that. Hard day. No excuse. Yeah, it is. Thanks for the lift, Mum.”
Addie said, “You should thank Mae for being here for—”
“Rack off. Jeezus. I will.” Jamie kissed her on the cheek. “Come in. Help us arrange it.”
“Already done,” Mae said. She’d had a floor plan in mind when she made the shopping list, so it had been easy to tell the delivery men where to put things. “Want to see how it looks?”
Addie got back in the car. “Take you up on that later. He’s got me running behind on some other things.” She closed the door and rolled the window down for a short fuss back and forth with Jamie before saying goodbye and driving off.
Jamie hugged Mae with his free arm. “Thanks for taking care of all that.” Compressed between them, Gasser squawked. Jamie said, “Sorry, mate,” and shifted the cat.
“Why’d you bring him? Aren’t you staying with your folks for three nights?”
“Yeah, but he needs some time with you. Been working on him. Pet him.”
Mae did. Gasser laid his ears back and warbled, a strange, unhappy sound.
“See?” Jamie adjusted his hold on the heavy animal, using both arms. “He’s singing to you.”
“Reckon you’d better work on that next.”
Jamie thanked her repeatedly, but he muttered and frowned as he studied the arrangement of the furniture each room. In the bedroom he inched the bedside table away from the wall and examined the effect, tapping his knuckles against his teeth.
“You don’t like it?”
“Dunno. Pictured more of a ... shelter ... cluster ...” He sat on the edge of the bed. “Fuck. I’m buggered.”
Mae ran a hand through his hair. It was tangled. “Want me to brush you?”
“Mm.” He took her hand and kissed it. “I’d love it. But it makes me sleep. Trying to get on a schedule. Sleep at night like a proper human.” He stood. “Thanks for doing the place. Really. I’ll move everything, like I did in the kitchen, but it doesn’t mean you did anything wrong, I’m just ... dunno. Picky.”
“Then let’s rearrange it now. You’re gonna be a fuss-pot if we don’t.”
“Nah.” He started downstairs. “Won’t fuss. Need to talk. Can’t talk and think spatially at the same time.”
She followed him. “Sure you can. What do you need to talk about?”
“Andrea didn’t undo Dahlia. Drum thing meets on Sundays. No Dahlia.” In the living room, he vibrated his fingers on a book shelf. “Gnph. At least you didn’t put the books on ’em.” He lifted the shelf, looked around the room, and set it down again. “Still got one Sunday before the fair, though.”
“Actually we don’t. Dahlia called me today. She wants us to get together when she gets back from LA and then she’s leaving again for more work. She’ll be back for the fair, but if the drum circle on Sundays is the only way Andrea can try to heal her, that’s not gonna happen.”
“Fuck.” Jamie moved the shelves tentatively, inching them around, and then carried the chairs to the middle of the room. The furniture now formed a circle.
Mae asked, “You like where the shelves are now? I can put the books on ’em.”
He adjusted the new bench, exchanged the cushions that lay on it with some that padded the chairs, and then changed them back. Fuss-pot. “Yeah. Think so. Thanks.”
Jamie vanished up the stairs, and Mae heard furniture scrape. Moving the dresser? It had to touch the wall. No. Spiders and scorpions hid in dark places. He must not want any dark places.
Gasser began to meow in the kitchen. “Feed him, will you, love?” More scraping. “Not much. Just enough to make him feel safe. He gets anxious.”
Mae went to the kitchen and sprinkled a few fish-shaped kibbles in Gasser’s food dish and filled his water bowl. He said something that sounded like mrah, an irritable complaint, glared at her, and then squatted down in a spreading mass and ate.
“See?” Jamie appeared beside her, silent as always. “He likes you now.” Mae saw no evidence of this, but didn’t think she should discourage the illusion. Jamie patted his pockets in a wallet-and-keys check. “Ready to shop? We need food for dinner.”
“Let’s finish your bookshelves first. And whatever you wanted to talk about.” She returned to living room, Jamie trailing her. “Or were you done with that?”
“Nah. Still need to heal Lily.”
“Are you offering again?”
“Kind of. Yeah. Talked to Naomi on my way over. She’s coming for the fair. Thinks she’ll get Lily to introduce her to Jill, and it’ll be all happy and magical. Jeezus. Didn’t know how to talk her out of it. Couldn’t say ‘stay home, they’re evil.’ ”
Mae sat down and began to shelve books. “No. Naomi’s convinced that Jill can heal Lily. It’s gonna be awful for her when she finds out what they’re both really like.”
“And for Harold. Fuck. He’s as excited about Lily as Naomi is about Jill. It’s the main reason he’s doing the show.” Ja
mie knelt, sitting back on his heels, and frowned at a book cover. “Whole bloody thing adds up to Jill getting away with murder. I mean,” his voice faded, “I know ... it was suicide, sort of—fuck—” He dropped the book and clawed at balls of air in front of his face, rocking, eyes scrunched shut. “Oh, Jesus. Jesus.”
Mae scooted over and hugged him, and he let her hold him until he calmed down. It was a strange spell—not panic, not crying, not rage, but something on the edge of all three. She smoothed his hair, undoing a knot with her fingers. “You want to win this fight with Jill, don’t you?”
“Yeah, but ...” He pulled away. “I never thought I could. I’m not a good fighter. I’m—y’know—you’ve seen me.” He stroked her arm, fiddled with her fingers. “I’m not cut out for it. Lose control.”
“I don’t like fighting, either.” She looked into his eyes. “But winning’s different. Somebody starts catching up on me in a race, I get a second wind. I bet you got that in you, too. I’ve seen you try to be the best dancer in the room.”
“But that’s easy. The only way to win against Jill is to put her out of business, and I can’t do that.”
“Reckon not. But ...” Mae hesitated. She wasn’t sure Jamie was up to the effort, even though he’d offered. “If we put Dahlia out of business, it’d put a dent in whatever’s between her and Jill. I could swear that even if Jill didn’t teach her to be a witch, she knows about it and uses it.”
“Yeah.” Jamie flipped through a book, closed it, and put it away. “Can’t believe Dahlia’s only knocking out Jill’s competition, though. Taking all that power. She doesn’t seem to do a bloody thing with it, but she has to, somewhere.”
Mae shelved more books. Had Dahlia given any signs of using power? “When I first met her, she told me she needed power to succeed in her profession. Maybe she’s taking down her competition. When she called today she was all smug about how these two models she thought of as rivals for a perfume ad campaign are both in rehab—one for drugs and the other for an eating disorder. Dahlia got the job. What if she directed this power at them?”