“You mean a beard?”
“No. Not a beard. Fur. Like all over his face. Dark brown like bat fur.”
“You high on something?” she asks.
“Of course I’m not.”
“And you’re worried about me, lady?”
I hear a light rapping on solid oak and I am no longer in Stori’s kitchen but back at my desk in the office. Bill pops his head in at the door. He puts an arm through an outdated tweed jacket. “Just out of curiosity. Did they ever locate the father?”
“No. He’s still missing. I’ve talked to some neighbors. People say he was never the same after the accident. I think he’s gone for good.”
“It’s a shame,” Bill says. “Too many people going missing lately. And most of them children.”
“We do our best…” I remind him, being the optimist I always try to be, “…to keep as many families together as we can.”
He smiles. “Good night, Priscilla. Don’t work too late.”
“Good night, Bill. I won’t.”
Damnit. Nate’s already home. The lights are on. I come into the living room and drop my things on the couch. Quietly I step inside the bedroom and find him under the covers, snoring loudly, The Art of Seduction lying open on his stomach. I place the book on his nightstand, pull the covers up to his chin and creep back outside, closing the bedroom door behind me.
His cell phone is on the coffee table. I sit on the couch and go to reach for it. But then I don’t. There has to be trust if this is going to work. I’m worthy. I’m worthy. I’m worthy.
When my silent mantra is done, I reach past his phone and grab the remote. Scrolling the DVR I select my favorite show—Big Bang Theory. A smile creeps across my face and I lean back and exhale. This is all I need. A little laughter. And Sheldon Cooper always does the trick.
4: Stori
Oh God. Out of everyone in the Valley who might know about Cosimo the Corpse, does it have to be Miss Beppy, dumb Desma’s paralyzed aunt? I hate Desma. I don’t care if it’s wrong. She lives next door, one floor above us. Our families share a clothesline; it runs from a pulley attached to our front fire escape and crosses a narrow alley, slanting up to her fire escape pulley. Mostly everyone in the Valley hangs their clothes out to dry, even in the dead of winter. Kindred Street is cluttered with rows of billowing cotton during midday, waving like friendly flags above our heads. My mother insists if her family leaves their stuff out too long and I need the space, I am to take it down and fold it for them and bring it over to their apartment in a basket. It was never a problem before, but I’m more than sour about it now as I lean over the side of the fire escape and draw her bobbing dish towels toward me. I’ll pull them in, but I am NOT folding them for her.
Rumor’s out. How I’ve put a mark on her out of raging jealousy.
Cradling a wicker basket of hand towels and oven mitts I make my way down to the street. Once outside, I come down the three concrete steps of my stoop and up the three steps of Desma’s. Desma lives atop My Fair Lady Beauty Salon. After ringing her buzzer I try to ignore the biting cold by peeking inside the salon. A few old ladies sit under dryers and Lorraine, the manicurist, is at her work station warming her hands around a steaming coffee mug. Her sister, Loretta, busily sweeps the floor. Loretta glimpses me from the corner of her eye and waves hello. “Don’t forget your mother,” she mouths.
I nod and wave back.
Loretta wants to treat my mother to a complimentary shampoo and setting and have Lorraine give her a full mani/pedi—on account of Mommy being really sick.
Finally I hear the deadbolt of Desma’s door go klock.
When she sees me her face drops. “I…I…” she stutters.
“Oh please. I’m not here for you.”
“You’re not?”
“Don’t flatter yourself Desma.”
“I didn’t mean to…well it’s just that people were saying you had beef with me…I’m sure it’s not true. I mean it’s not like I stole your…” She bites her lip.
“Tony was never my man. And I never liked him.”
The first statement is true. The second is an outright lie. Her bottom lip is bright red from her chewing on it so hard. I can’t help but recall another rumor that’s been circulating—that Desma is a great kisser.
Yes, a great kisser! I hate having to even say it, because it makes me so fucking jealous but rumor is spreading faster than HPV that she can make out with the best of them and that’s why he fell in love. I heard most of the story from Ernestine. You see, Ernestine is a little faster than I am when it comes to boys. Sometimes she goes to those stupid make-out parties when she knows a hottie’s gonna be there. Turns out Tony was at the last one she went to, cause he’s such a horn dog. Ernestine said that Tony and Desma were making out all night and after the lights came on Tony couldn’t stand. His friends tried to lift him off the couch but his knees kept buckling. “She killed me,” he said. “That girl is the best kisser I’ve ever had.”
Now all the guys are in love with her and everybody’s talking about how she has the kiss of death.
I’m not too sure, but I think I’m a horrible kisser. I mean, I’ve never really done it before so I must be horrible. I wanted to learn so bad that I stole a Seventeen magazine from the media center at school; it had this article on the art of kissing. Ever since then I’ve been brushing my lips once a week with a toothbrush to exfoliate them and I put Vaseline on them every morning. I practice at night in bed after Regi falls asleep—I roll my tongue around in my mouth to get a feel for of how it would be like—I run it under my lips over my teeth. (I got all that from the magazine.) Sometimes I use my fingers for practice, pressing two of them together as pretend lips. But it’s just so hard to know. I mean what makes a good kisser? A part of me would love to ask Desma but I would rather die than admit I suck at something she’s good at. I despise giving other people the upper hand.
Looking at her now, getting an up-close of those lethal lips, shimmering under a gleam of strawberry lip gloss, I feel so inadequate. Like I’m just a child and she’s ten years older—already a woman.
You’re probably going to think I’m the biggest loser you ever met now, but I wish I was Desma instead of me. I wish I looked like her, acted like her and had her man. I wish instead of being the toughest girl in the Valley I was the best kisser in the Valley. God, what an honor it would be. I would never wish for another thing again. Except my father of course.
Now I have to ask her permission to come in. Could this get any worse? “No beef, Desma. I’m here to see your aunt.”
“Oh.” She smiles and I note the small gap between her two front teeth and her slight overbite. Even her imperfections are pretty. “Aunt Beppy?”
“Yeah.”
“She’s having lunch in the den.”
“Can I see her?”
“Of course, Stori. You’re always welcome here.”
Stop being so nice, damnit. I don’t want to be your friend. I want to imagine you as the evil man-stealer you really are.
She leads me upstairs into her apartment. Aside from the spotless linoleum kitchen the whole place is covered in wall to wall carpet. It’s a pinkish salmon kind of color with not the slightest stain or cigarette burn. Plum drapes frame the windows and radiators, sweeping all the way down to the floor. Desma’s mother owns the flower shop a few blocks from here. Potted ivy and gardenias sit in the windowsills, all of them gleaming and neatly trimmed. Her apartment kind of feels like being inside a red flower.
Through a small room a door leads out to another little room. Unlike the rest of the house, with its muted glow, there are no curtains in here. Sunlight streams in from every direction. Desma’s Great Aunt Beppy rests in a cushiony rocking chair, her legs under a blanket. Half a sandwich is on a plate in her lap and a napkin’s tucked into her collar. She isn’t much of anything—maybe ninety pounds at best—I’m not sure if I’d even give her that. Her long arms are roped with purple veins and splotchy with
sun marks.
“Aunt Beppy. You have a visitor.”
Aunt Beppy stares straight out the window into the blaring light. “Who is it dear?”
“Stori Putzarella.”
“Putzarella.”
“Frank and Anna’s daughter. Remember?”
“Oh yes. Come in dear. Sit in the sun. The birds aren’t back yet from the South. But at least we have the sun.”
Desma puts an armless chair in front of her aunt and I sit. I wait for Desma to leave but no luck there. She goes over to the corner and sets herself on a footstool, placing my whicker basket in front of her. She places a hand towel on her lap and says with a smile, “Go ahead. You can talk to her.”
If she’s waiting for a smile back, she’s not getting one. I ignore her completely and look at her aunt. “Miss Beppy. I’m here to see you because…well my father is missing, Miss Beppy. He disappeared in the middle of the night. I was at Miss Lu’s house last night—” I glance up to see Desma’s reaction. I guess I’m not a threat to her the way she is to me. “—and her son, Arty, said Cosimo the Corpse had something to do with it.”
She stiffens like she got stung by a bee.
“I don’t know if I believe in Cosimo, but—”
“—Stop right there,” she demands. She starts choking a little bit. She can still use her one arm for she takes the napkin out of her blouse and puts it to her mouth. She clears her throat. “Desma. You better not be playing no tricks on me.”
Desma puts her folding down. “No auntie. I swear.” She turns to me wide eyed. “Stori, I’m sorry. But we don’t talk about that person in this house. Not never.”
I ignore her again. I lean forward on my elbows and hunch down so I’m much lower than Miss Beppy. This is a sign of respect and I hope it will assure her I’m not here to play tricks or hear a good story. “Miss Beppy. I’m so sorry. I would normally never ask you something like that, but my father—he could be in danger. He could be dead, Miss Beppy. My mother’s not good either. If my father doesn’t come home soon we can be in a lot of trouble. Please, Miss Beppy. I’m scared.” I’m forced to say it. Even if now Desma knows I’m all around pathetic. But I don’t care anymore. The more I think about my father not coming home the more I understand how nothing else matters but getting him back—nothing—not even my pride.
Aunt Beppy closes her eyes and says, “Who saw him?”
“I don’t know if anyone saw him. But that’s what Arty Arm told me.”
She starts nodding her head, eyes sealed tight. She reaches forward and grabs onto the pillowed arms of the rocking chair. Gripping tight, fingers pressed into stuffed cotton, she begins to speak. Weird words that don’t make any sense. A language I have never heard before.
Desma looks terrified. “No, Aunt Bep. Stop it.”
But the words come spilling out, faster and faster and faster. Her voice rises, booms off the walls. My heart is racing. I don’t want this woman having a heart attack or anything. Or falling out of her chair and getting hurt. I reach out and put my hand on top of hers. “Miss Beppy, take it easy. Please.”
Then her eyes shoot open and she stares wildly at me. “It wasn’t him. But one of his Hounds was here. He came right over my bed. Have you known evil, girl?”
Desma stands and knocks over the basket. She rushes over to her aunt and kneels before her. “Please, Aunt Beppy. Let it go.” She looks up at me. “Stori. You have to leave. You don’t understand.”
Man am I spooked now. Maybe I don’t want to know what she has to tell. But my father. My father. I look away from Desma and back to her aunt. “If I haven’t, I want to know.”
Desma’s panting as if she’s going to pass out or something but her aunt pays her no attention. “Cosimo and his lovesick witch sent their Hounds in the night to kill me. One of them came right over my bed and put his hands around my neck. He had the claws of a pigeon.”
My toes cringe and my spine tingles the way it does when I sense someone behind me might grab me. I have to straighten and tighten my shoulders to fight it. “What did you do?”
“I prayed for him, Stori. I prayed good and hard. He couldn’t get my life, but he took my walking away. That much he was able to get. But he and the other Hounds will be back. They won’t stop until all the Braves in Redemption are dead.”
“Oh. So this is about the Braves?” I’m disappointed. This is just another one of those old people myths.
Here’s where I better pause to tell you a little more about the Valley. I was hoping I could kind of skim right over it, seeing how utterly insane it sounds. But there are some who say they’re from the lineage of the first people. Like Adam’s people. I know. It’s insane. No one is able to trace their roots back that far. But nonetheless some old folk here claim they go back to some tribe that descended from Eden.
“I am of the lineage of the Braves. There aren’t that many of us left in Redemption. The Braves are the oldest tribe to walk the face of the earth. They have been around since the time of Babel and before. They were on the boat with Noah.”
“But Miss Beppy. How do you know?”
“Well I know the stories. The ones I tell on my front stoop to the children.” She points at me. “You never come and listen.”
“Me?”
“I know the old tales of how my people came to be our most powerful in the city of Shinar, when the tower of Babel was being built. I know about the making of the crown. All of it passed down, Stori. Passed down. A thread as thin as spider’s silk that has never been broken. Why don’t you come and listen with the other children?”
“I don’t know. How can stories last that long if they were never even written?”
“Oh, some were. In the book. The book that has the spell that saved Cosimo from dying. But no one knows where that book is. But there are other ways, far better than a book even, to preserve history. Just as the places still exist where our ancient mothers walked so are the lives they lived. Nothing in this world can ever die. Whether we know they’re there or not, the stories remain. And we can preserve them. Why through each other, of course.”
“I won’t hear the stories,” Desma says all defiant. “Aunt Beppy tries to tell me the stories but I won’t hear them.”
Miss Beppy frowns. “Why Desma? Tell me why?”
“Because look at you! All hurt and sick. And just because you wouldn’t stop telling those kids that one about Bilhah.”
“Bilhah?” I blurt out, having completely forgotten my rivalry.
“Yes,” Desma insists, clutching my forearm. “Aunt Beppy told that story to some kids from Soda Can and then that night that thing came in here.”
“I knew it was only a matter of time,” Miss Beppy says. “He don’t want us telling them stories. Knowing who we are. Where we came from.”
“The old and the new?” Her eyes darken. “They are going to kill me. But before they do, I just want to pass the stories on to Desma.”
“I won’t let her,” Desma insists. “The stories are dangerous. They should never be told. Ever ever again.”
“Let’s call the police.” I say. “Or maybe we should tell the Tapparellis.”
“It’s beyond the police. The Tapparellis can do nothing. Your father’s missing? Pray for him. The dawning of the Dark Age has begun. And the final war is being waged this very moment. I don’t think the good side will be able to win, with all I’ve heard and seen. There are only a few of us left now. Just a few who have the stories of the Braves. If the end is coming, and Desma won’t hear my stories, then I just want to sit here in my sunroom. Why isn’t that enough?” She points out to the brilliant sky. “Look at the sun. My God. Look at that sun!”
“Miss Beppy. We can’t let this person just come in here and hurt us like that. We are the Calabrese of the Valley. We’re stronger than him. Where do you think he is now? Where does he hide?”
“You foolish girl. Go ahead and call for him. He’ll send his Hounds to come and eat you up alive. Do you know his power?
Get out of here! Get out of here! Get out!”
Desma takes a step forward. “Stori. Please. She can’t take it.”
I get up and look down on the woman. I want to say sorry but she’s so mad at me I don’t even think it will help. I rush out of the house as quickly as I can.
Back out on Kindred Street Desma calls out to me from her stoop. “Stori wait.”
Once I’m on the sidewalk I turn to face her. I feel better already, not being on her turf anymore.
“I won’t tell anyone what happened in there, okay? I just want to be friends.”
“I’m not your friend, Desma. And I don’t need you doing me any favors. Tell as many people as you please.”
She pouts. Looking at her and her perfect lips feels like double failure.
This is the way I’m gonna go out. My obituary will read: Getting pouted at by the mouth that kills. She puts her hands down by her sides and turns her palms out. She spreads her fingers wide. In the Valley if someone shows you their palms it means you have their submission. And their trust.
As much as I hate Desma I don’t think she stole Tony out of spite. I think she gets how bad it’s hurt me and she wants to make amends.
My little sister is across the street with a few of her friends, playing double dutch. Regi turns the ropes on one side as her friend Sammy gears up to jump inside. He rips off his coat and leaves it at his feet. The young ones never get cold it seems. As he waits, they all sing:
Down in the Valley
was a boy named Sam
Traveled to the alley.
One called Soda Can!
Man came out to bite him
Bite him in his hand
Jaws just like a lion
Even though he was a man
Sammy got the curse now
Send him to the fire
Burn it out and spin him
Get the beast real tired
Sammy bolts inside the ropes and starts jumping.
The Book, the Key and the Crown (Secrets of the Emerald Tablet Book 1) Page 5