The Breathless

by Tara Goedjen

  Cage had been around tales of such things from his summer job at the wharf. Nautical stars and fleurs-de-lis carved into masts for luck, and ships that were said to be haunted. Thing was, people secretly believed in the stories they whispered, even if they sounded ridiculous in daylight. Ro was a believer, but in a playful way, like she was holding back a wink. There was nothing to like about her house or the book she’d inherited—coincidences that struck too close for comfort—but she’d promised to overlook his past, which was more than he ever expected. So he ignored her book, didn’t tell her not to play around with it, that in parts of New Orleans they took that sort of thing seriously. He said not one word, and in truth it reminded him of his mother, so he was happy not to bring it up. Ro’s grandfather wanted it kept a secret anyway; she wasn’t supposed to tell anyone about it, not even her sisters.

  But he and Ro told each other everything—that was the other promise. He’d have to own up to his motorcycle accident, even though he’d bragged about being good with a bike.

  The shadow at the window was gone now, and he started forward again. It wasn’t dusk yet, but the porch light was on, and that burning bulb seemed like a beacon. A lighthouse in the woods.

  Cage strode down the gravel drive. The rain had stopped, but his stolen clothes were still wet and his skull was throbbing. If he’d been in the hospital overnight, Ro might be worried. They’d been fighting before he’d rode off, that much he knew, but she still would have expected him to call. His mother never gave much good advice, but she said to always apologize to a girl if she was angry. Even if you weren’t sure why. So he’d apologize. He’d knock on the door and Ro would answer. He’d say he was sorry, and she’d make things okay—she always did; that was part of her magic. She’d help him find his bike, or what was left of it, and then he’d drive to the docks in Gulf Shores for work. Simple.

  He walked past a pair of beech trees in the yard and the crumbling fountain and then took the porch steps two at a time. The rocking chairs were empty and so was the porch swing—its chain was broken and it hung crooked. The red paint on the door was fading, peeling away. Could take a brush to it if Sonny would let him.

  He knocked once and then waited. No answer, so he rapped the iron knocker and then felt something soft weave around his ankles. A small black cat, one of the strays Ro looked after. He leaned down and put his hand next to it, let it nuzzle against him.

  Footsteps came from inside the house, and the cat darted into the bushes. Cage straightened, but no one opened the door. He knocked again, louder this time, and then waited what seemed like forever. The door opened just a crack, the metal chain still latched.

  Ro’s younger sister stared at him, her brown eyes wide, that half-curly hair of hers long and loose and no makeup on. She was the kind of girl who didn’t know she was pretty and didn’t care either. Not like Ro, who knew but didn’t hold it against you.

  “Hey, can you get Ro for me?”

  Without saying a word, Mae slammed the door in his face.

  His head was starting to throb again, and this wasn’t helping. He wanted a hot shower, some food, and a gallon of water—his thirst was sucking his very soul dry—but mostly he just wanted Ro. And now he was stuck out here with the door locked. Ro must be angry with him for sure, had even told her sister about their fight.

  He knocked again. Come on, Mae. He swore he heard breathing on the other side. Mae had always been a bit off the beaten path. Wild-animal shy and nothing like Ro.

  “You still there?” he said. “Mind letting me in?”

  When he was about to turn away, maybe throw a pebble at Ro’s window the old-fashioned way, the door opened again. Her sister was staring at him, the chain still latched.

  “You know why I’m here,” Cage said.

  Her lips parted, but she didn’t speak. She looked confused, almost stunned. The look of someone who’d taken an elbow to the head. That dazed stare, then the rapid blinking, like she was surprised to find herself standing in front of him.

  She started to say something and then stopped. Mae was only a couple of years younger, but Ro was the one who ran the house and always had. Maybe their fight had been worse than he realized. Could be she didn’t want to see him or had finally dropped him for Lance.

  “Where…where have you been?” Mae asked.

  Good, at least she was speaking to him now. Another bolt of pain shot through his skull, and he breathed out hard and ran his hand over his hair. His scalp felt tender—maybe he was bleeding.

  “Look,” Cage said. “I crashed my motorcycle. Can you please get Ro?”

  “You want Ro?” Mae’s voice was barely a whisper. She looked confused. “But…”

  He waited, trying his best to let her finish. Mae had trailed off, and now she was tilting her head to the side as if she couldn’t quite remember who he was.

  “But…you can’t,” she said.

  Her sidestepping was frustrating the hell out of him. “She might’ve told you I can’t,” he said, trying to keep the bite from his voice, “but I need to talk to her.”

  “I don’t understand.” Mae’s chest rose and fell under her thin sweatshirt. Her breath was jagged, like she might hyperventilate. It reminded him of his mother, after the smoking got to her lungs.

  “Let me in for a second.” His hand went to his head again—he needed to remember, explain himself. “Please, Mae.” He tried to swallow, but his throat was too dry.

  After a long moment Mae slid the latch, and the door swung open a bit more. She stood there, blocking the entrance, even though there was nothing to her—she was all sinew, and timid as anything. He thought about pushing her aside and hollering for Ro, but instead he let out a breath, wiped his boots on the mat.

  “I’m trying here, real hard,” he said. Mae was still gaping at him. He glanced over her shoulder and caught a face in the shadows. But no, it was just all those portraits on the walls. “I know she’s home,” he told her. “I saw her at the window.”

  She put her hands up to her mouth and blinked like she was holding in tears.

  “Look,” he said. “Look, don’t worry. I’m not mad.” She took a step back, and he saw his entrance and went for it, lunging through the doorway. The foyer reeked, it needed air. “She upstairs?”

  Mae’s hands fell away from her face, and she was doing that weird breathing again.

  “Talk to me.”

  “I— She—”

  A banging noise behind them. Cage turned to see the other sister barging into the foyer. Elle was taller than Mae and looked a little like Ro, if you took Ro’s face and stretched it out.

  “Listen—” he started.

  “Get away from her,” Elle snarled. She lifted something, and his chest knew what it was before his eyes did.

  She was holding a rifle. His heart was going thud thud thud thud and he was vaguely aware of Mae beside him. “Call the cops, Mae,” Elle said.

  Why the cops? “Hey, I know your sister and me got in a fight, but—”

  “Stop.” Elle cut him off. “Keep your hands up and shut your mouth.”

  “Elle!” Mae snapped out of whatever daze she’d been in and finally moved. “Put it down!”

  If Elle hadn’t had the gun, Cage might have laughed, but she was serious, her face tense with anger. “Turn around,” she said, the rifle aimed at his chest. “Slowly.”

  He didn’t want to turn around. Elle wasn’t going to shoot, but the thought of putting his back to the barrel made him feel sick. He stayed facing her, his muscles frozen up. It was hard to think with a gun pointed at him. As many fights as he’d been in, he’d only ever had one aimed at him once, and that had been at his mother’s place. “This is a misunderstanding.”

  “Shut up,” Elle said, and then came the unmistakable click. She’d cocked the gun.

  “He doesn’t know—” Mae started, but her sister let out a sharp laugh, the rifle still on him.

  “Is this supposed to be some sort of joke?” Elle’
s voice had risen a notch. “Do you think this is funny?” Her bangs were matted with sweat.

  “I’m not laughing,” Cage said. It was all happening too fast, and he wasn’t sure what to do. Run? Yell for Ro? He stood in place, every muscle in his body taut.

  “Elle, he doesn’t know,” Mae repeated, louder this time.

  He glanced at her and then back at the gun. “Know what?”

  Elle kept the barrel aimed. “Mae, pick up the phone and call the cops like I told you.”

  For shit’s sake. Only in Alabama. Only in Alabama would a sixteen-year-old girl be shoving a rifle in his face. The floor seemed to tilt and he was sweating and he felt his control slipping away. Stay calm, stay calm. But something didn’t make sense, and doubt had begun to crawl into his stomach. A little snake of doubt, and it was twisting and turning in his gut.

  “Ro is—”

  “Mae, don’t talk to him.” Elle cut her off. “And you keep your hands up.”

  The snake in Cage’s stomach sank fangs. He was scared now, and the gun wasn’t half of it. “Where is she?”

  “You know where she is!” Elle yelled, stepping toward him. “You did it, and then you took off and hid.” The rifle bobbed up at his face. “You think you can just come back here after all this time? Act like it never happened?”

  The floor tilted again, fast, and he felt he might lose it completely. “What? What are you…?” He was trying to form words but his head was pounding. “Did what?”

  “You coward. Own up to it.”

  “I’m not,” he said, even though all he wanted to do was get out of this stinking house. “Mae, what’s she talking about?”

  “Ro’s gone,” Mae told him. “You ran, so we thought—”

  “What do you mean, gone?” His chest heaved when he said it.

  “Ro’s dead.” Mae was still talking, but he couldn’t hear anything more, because he was stuck on dead. Kept hearing it over and over. Dead. Dead. Dead. But she couldn’t be. No, not Ro. Not her. He was desperate now; he felt like he was in a dream, a nightmare.

  “We know it was you,” Elle said.

  The rifle was shaking. Her look said she hated him, and his head was a drum and his heartbeat was in his ears and everything around him was fading, going gray. Dead dead dead dead.

  His vision blurred—the barrel was closer now. Elle’s voice in his ear: “You’ll regret coming back.”

  Something was wrong. It was a trick, it wasn’t real. He thought of that thing of hers, that thing that shouldn’t exist, that shouldn’t be possible. “Is this about the book?” He tripped on the words, tried to think straight, to breathe. “Has she—”

  “Just stop talking!”

  His eyes were on the stairs now. He’d call Elle’s bluff and run up to Ro’s room. She was in her room and everything was all right and the girl he loved was alive.

  “Please put it down,” Mae begged her sister. “Please. We need to talk to him.”

  “No,” Elle said, and she was crying now. “He did it, I know he did.”

  And then everything happened fast—Mae was shouting for him to leave and stepping toward her sister and he was turning away from them and that horrible echo, dead dead dead dead, and the next thing he heard was the roar of the gun and his heart stopped in his chest.

  ELLE’S MOUTH WAS MOVING AND Mae tried to listen, except the words were muffled. Her sister grabbed her elbow, hard, and then nearly tripped over the rifle. She was talking, but it sounded like she was underwater. “Are you hurt?” Elle’s voice was getting louder, it was surfacing. “You shouldn’t have grabbed at it,” she said, full volume now. “You’re hurt, Mae. You’re in shock.”

  She was shocked, because of Cage. He’d been right here, at the door, and for a minute she’d expected Ro by his side.

  “Oh my God, it’s everywhere!” Elle was patting her down with hard slaps that stung.

  “I’m okay,” Mae said, “I’m okay.” But her legs didn’t want to move. The blast of the gun had gone atomic in her head, like her body had turned to ash. It felt as if all the little pieces were floating down into a pile, gathering back together. “You didn’t hit me.”

  “But the blood.” Elle’s face paled—she was looking past her now—and Mae followed her gaze to the wall.

  The house was bleeding. Thick, dark red droplets were spattered across the door. Her stomach clenched, and she stepped forward to touch it, to know for sure.

  “I got you, I did,” Elle was saying behind her, shrill and fast. “I’ll call an ambulance.”

  “Wait.” Mae stared at the splotch of red on her fingertip as she brought it toward her lips. She breathed in, and just as she was about to taste it, Elle grabbed her wrist. “It’s not—”

  “Blood?” Elle was touching it now too.

  Mae looked down and saw the shreds in her sweatshirt pocket, the spatter. The bullet must have grazed the plastic bottle she’d had inside. Pompeian Red was the color; she’d liked its name—a nod to Mount Vesuvius, volcanic, molten—when she’d saved up enough to buy it.

  “You didn’t shoot anyone, Elle.” The bottle had exploded. On the walls and door was acrylic resin, powdered cinnabar. All that red reminded her of something—

  “If you’re not shot, then…” Elle was getting worked up again. “Cage. We have to call the cops.” She turned, and Mae knew to grab her before she picked up the phone.

  “Do you really think—”

  “Dad does. And if he sees him?” Elle reached for the phone, but Mae clutched her tight, needing time to think. Cage had been asking the wrong questions. He’d acted like he didn’t know Ro was dead, even though he’d been on the boat with her that day. Just now, when he’d knocked on the door—it was like time had spun backward.

  Elle’s eyes narrowed. “I can’t trust your judgment with him,” she said.

  Mae felt the sting of her words but tried not to show it. “You know what Dad will do if he finds out Cage was here.” She could see Elle start to give, just a fraction, and she took it. “You don’t want that, and neither do I.”

  Elle’s neck was going splotchy, turning the color of her hair. Her sister knew as well as she did that a call to the cops would go straight to Childers, that he’d let their dad do whatever he wanted, and then there’d be blood on the door instead of paint.

  “You could have hit me or Cage just then,” Mae said, tamping down a sudden rush of anger. “It was lucky you missed. But you know Dad won’t.”

  “I didn’t mean to shoot at you.” Elle’s neck was even more flushed now.

  “Promise you won’t say anything. Not yet, at least.” Mae squeezed her sister’s hand, wanting to get through to her. Their family never said things like I love you or Thank you. They just squeezed hands. Elle shook her off and then turned and walked out of the foyer.

  “Elle!”

  She didn’t answer, and Mae’s heart clenched tight. It was good Elle hadn’t picked up the phone, but she was used to getting her way, and Mae had no idea what she would do.

  The bullet had left a single hole in the wall. As she stared at it, she felt as if she’d overlooked something important about Cage, like trying to take a picture through a foggy lens. She needed to go find him, but first she had to get Elle on her side.

  She heard heavy footsteps as her sister stomped back into the foyer, carrying a bucket and a rag. Mae felt a rush of gratitude and nearly pulled her into a hug.

  “I owe you,” she said, but Elle didn’t speak, just grabbed the rag and tore it in half, and then they both started scrubbing the paint on the walls. The silence was loaded the way it always was post-fight, and Mae cleaned quickly, wondering if it was a mistake not to turn Cage in. He hadn’t believed them about Ro; he’d acted like he thought they were lying, which meant he’d search all of Blue Gate for her—she knew he would, because that was what she would do. Covering that much ground would take a while. He’d still be out there.

  Mae kept cleaning as Elle walked out of the foyer agai
n, returning with a picture frame and a hammer. Without saying a word, her sister pounded a nail above the bullet hole, and then hung the frame. It was a black-and-white of Blue Gate, back when it was first built.

  “Where’d you find that?” Mae asked, desperate for her to start talking again. The sooner she did that, the sooner she’d know if she’d convinced Elle to stay quiet.

  “There’s boxes of them,” Elle said. “They all smell like mold. The whole house smells, and I can’t stand all the mess anymore.” She pointed at the wall. “And I really can’t stand this mess, Mae.”

  Mae knew she didn’t mean the paint or the bullet hole. She meant Cage. She meant Ro.

  “I’m going to figure it out—” She sounded more confident than she felt. Maybe Elle was right about not trusting her when it came to Cage—maybe she did have a soft spot for him. That worried her, but Sonny with a gun worried her more.

  “What if Granddad had seen him?” Elle asked. Her eyebrows were pressed tight, matching the way she held her shoulders. She was all elbows and curves and teeth. Everything about her was ready to fight, to pull another trigger. For all the times Mae got frustrated with Elle, she admired her too. “Did you think about that?” her sister went on.

  “Of course I thought of him.” Their granddad was another reason why there couldn’t be sirens again, not unless they were sure. She knew what would happen if his blood pressure went up too high and she couldn’t calm him. “I have a plan,” she said. “Let me—”

  Footsteps sounded on the porch and they both whirled. The door flung open and their dad stepped inside the house, wiping his boots on the mat without looking up. “I’ve got Childers waiting in the car. Just swung by to pick up some drinks.” He paused, staring at them. A soiled paper bag was in his fist. “What’s wrong with you two?”

  Mae looked down at her hands. “Why do things always have to be wrong?” she said, because she didn’t want to lie to him.

  He stamped his boots off some more. “Gonna hurry up and fill me in?”