Eye of the Beholder

by Shari Shattuck

  “Absolutely, of course. Greer?”

  “Yes, honey?”

  “Should I be afraid?”

  “No. You should be as positive as you possibly can.” Greer hung up the phone and wished she could take her own advice. She punched the intercom button on the phone and said, “Celia?”

  Over the busy noise of the salon came the response: “Yes?”

  “Can you please see that I’m not interrupted for about ten minutes, no calls, no questions?”

  “Uh, sure. Do you have a client?” Celia asked, and Greer could hear her flipping through the appointment book.

  “No, not until three. Just, please, I need ten minutes. Okay?”

  “Sure.”

  The rustling noise of people and activity ceased when she cut the connection. Greer lit a candle and placed it on the floor; then she sat cross-legged in front of it and tried to clear her mind. Her anxiety was blocking the way, and it took a moment to settle the chatter and the waking-nightmare images that were not clairvoyant but products of her brain’s frenetic busyness.

  Finally, though, she settled, reached a place of vast emptiness and infinite possibility, and began to search around for the energy of Joy and the bracelet. Little traces of color, like wisps of scent, drew her mind in one direction, until finally an image of Joy appeared in her mind. She seemed safe for the moment in a circle of green light, light the color of sun through the peridot crystal on the bracelet, but wounded spaces, like angry welts of darkness, struck again and again at the circle, and it was growing thinner.

  Joy wandered his house, reveling in the secret of being somewhere she wasn’t supposed to be, somewhere that no one knew where to find her. Freedom. He had let her in and told her to do as she pleased, stay as long as she liked; he had to go to work and he’d be back later. She had amused herself going through his drawers and then fallen asleep for most of the morning on the sofa. When she’d woken she’d turned on the TV and made herself a sandwich, careful to put everything back just so and wipe away all the crumbs in his spotless kitchen.

  Come afternoon the soap operas had bored her, so she turned off the television and started wandering again. It was quiet here. There were no other houses nearby, and she felt very mature. He trusted her with his home. She fantasized about making love to him when he came home and felt a swell of fear. He was not some kid; he was a man, and she wondered if she could please him. She wasn’t a virgin, but the fumbling, embarrassed sex she’d had a few times hadn’t left her feeling overly confident.

  Sliding open a drawer on his superneat desk, she fingered the objects in different small compartments. Paper clips, nail cutters, staples, and a key on a key chain. She picked up the key and let the charm dangle in front of her face. It was an interesting-looking thing, maybe Egyptian? Almost playfully she reached out a finger and touched the heavy metal object to send it swinging.

  Greer gasped and both of her hands flew to her forehead, where an intense burning was making her eyes water. She pressed two fingers of each hand to the spot, just above and between her eyes, and pressed until the momentary pain subsided. Breathing deeply, she got to her feet and looked in the mirror, but there was no sign of any injury. Greer knew this pain had something to do with Joy, but it was beyond her talent to know what it meant exactly, or how to help her. She had to do something; she couldn’t let this happen again. Not twice in her life! She looked hopelessly at her reflection and began to cry. The images of Sarah in the hospital, of her casket swaying slightly as it was lowered into her gaping grave, of her empty desk at school, flooded Greer’s mind.

  “Sarah,” she called out in a hoarse whisper. “Sarah, help me!”

  But the only answer was a crackling sizzle as a speck of dust hit the burning candle and evaporated into an undetectable wisp of smoke.

  Joshua was staring down at his textbook when it happened. The fluorescent light of the ugly, windowless cinder-block classroom disappeared and, as though through his own eyes, he saw a hand held up in front of his face, a girl’s hand holding a dangling charm of some kind. Sunlight streamed through a window and glistened on a bracelet, causing the green stone to spark with light. Joy’s bracelet. Joy’s hand.

  His whole body jolted with the shock of it. His right arm swung wildly, as if to wipe the unwanted image away, knocking his books off of his desk instead. A cry of alarm at the strangeness of it escaped him.

  The room returned. Every face had turned to stare blankly at Joshua. He muttered something about being clumsy and reached down to retrieve his books and hide the burning redness of his face. He was shaking and sweaty. The teacher, a hip young man who seemed not long out of college, stopped the lesson and started over to Joshua.

  “Everyone, please turn to the end of the chapter and answer questions one through five,” the teacher commanded, kindly trying to pull the attention away from Joshua. It didn’t work. Not one face bothered to do anything other than blatantly stare at the spectacle of Joshua’s discomfort. He felt like an accident on the side of the highway.

  “Are you not feeling well?” the teacher asked in a low voice when he reached Joshua’s desk.

  Joshua automatically started to say yes, and then shifted gears quickly. “No, I’m not feeling well. I think I might need to go home.”

  The teacher regarded his new pupil. The few days Joshua had been in his class had been enough to show him that this was a serious student who was both respectful and honest. He could see the slight glow of sweat on Joshua’s brow and the flushed color.

  “You look like you might have a fever. Why don’t you get your things and go by the office? Is there someone who can pick you up?”

  “It’s okay; I have a bike.”

  “All right. Go ahead, then; homework will be an essay on the causes of the French Revolution. We’ll see you tomorrow. Feel better.”

  The other kids were still watching him voraciously, as though they were hungry for a full-scale seizure; some were snickering behind their hands to friends, and others were smiling with malicious delight. Joshua’s face burned even darker as he rose, put his books away, and took the endless walk between the desks to the door. It was horrible standing out like this. He felt like a carnival sideshow, as though he’d grown horns or his skin had turned scaly and green. Furious and embarrassed, he forced himself not to make eye contact with any of the other teenagers. As he passed Natalie’s desk, she whispered, “I hope you feel better.” He glanced down at her, but even she had a guarded fear in her forced smile, as though she were being nice, but trying to put distance between them.

  “Uh, thanks.” Joshua hit the hallway and half ran to the front doors. He didn’t stop at the office for a permission slip—he didn’t even answer the teacher who called out to him, asking what he was doing out of class—he just kept moving until he was on his motorcycle, pushing it as fast as the tiny motor would tolerate.

  Opening the throttle and punishing the little engine, he tried to outrun the whispering faces and the cruel smiles, to leave them behind him in the classroom, but he couldn’t. The reality of his outburst and his vision wouldn’t be blown off him by the chilly wind that stung his face and hands.

  The cold wind blinded Joshua with tears, and he realized that he could never outrun the stares and the snickering, not as long as he was different and it showed. And it wouldn’t help Joy. He slowed the bike to reasonable rpms and wiped his eyes with the back of his jacket sleeve, but the tears continued to come. He hadn’t asked for the strange things that were happening to him, but running wouldn’t stop the premonitions, if that was what they were. They didn’t come from outside of him, but from somewhere that was connected to him somehow.

  And what did it mean? The bracelet in his vision had been the one his mom had given Joy, but so what? How was that supposed to help her? And what had she been holding? Some kind of key chain. He let out a frustrated cry into the winter air as his fear for Joy—and his inability to translate anything he had seen—filled him with rage and frustr
ation.

  And how could he face school tomorrow? He would have to learn to control what was happening to him; he had to. But what if Joy was in danger, and what if something he saw might save her?

  Joshua tried to shake off the horrible heaviness of that possible responsibility. He had zero faith in his ability to help anyone with these disconcerting images. As desperately as he wanted Joy to be safe, he couldn’t fathom that her well-being would be up to him. He couldn’t shake the feeling that if it was, to use her own phrase . . .

  She was fucked.

  Chapter 31

  Vince was returning from a late lunch when he spotted Army in line at the bank. He was with a slightly older man who was so similar in build and look that he must have been his brother. He sauntered over and held out his hand.

  “Hi, there, I’m Vince Slater, the bank manager. How are you gentlemen doing today?”

  The brother’s face, which seemed to wear a perpetually amused smile, looked surprised, but he reached out to return the handshake. “Hi, I’m Paul.”

  Keeping his smile friendly, Vince extended his hand to Army. “And you are?”

  Army kept his arms crossed. He looked once at Vince’s hand and then away, ignoring him except for a tightening of the jaw. Paul seemed used to this. “This is my brother, Army. He’s not real social.”

  “No? Oh, well.” He raised his abandoned hand in a gesture of surrender and then placed it casually in his pocket. “So, what brings you in today?”

  Paul looked around at the other people waiting in line and assumed a slightly embarrassed, guilty manner, as though he suspected he’d been called out of class for some kind of misbehavior. “Just depositing some checks.”

  “Oh, great.” Vince laughed. “We love to take people’s money. What do you do? If you don’t mind my asking.”

  Vince’s manner was so polite and friendly that Paul seemed to relax. Army continued to bristle in his rocklike stance. “We’re plumbers.”

  “Oh, plumbers. Have you got a card?” As Paul fished out a stained card from a worn wallet swollen with receipts, Vince looked directly at Army and continued. “I mean, if my toilet ever gets clogged up, I might need to give you guys a call!” He laughed to show that this was just a lighthearted joke. The muscles on Army’s biceps tightened and his nostrils flared, but he said nothing.

  Paul’s chin jutted forward, and his blue eyes twinkled. “Yeah, well, we’re in the only business where a flush beats a full house.” He laughed easily at his own old joke.

  Vince smacked him on the shoulder, as if he’d told a good one. “That’s funny, Paul. You mind if I use that?”

  Paul shrugged, the constant smile mimicking his shoulders, rising quickly up into a more pronounced grin and then back into its fixed, pleasant position. “Help yourself.”

  “Well, I just wanted you to know that we appreciate your business.”

  From her desk, Leah watched Vince’s routine, one hand on the chest, the other holding the manila envelope down by his side, and she wondered what he was really up to.

  “And if there’s ever anything I can personally do for you”—his eyes went again to Army, who glanced back at him briefly—“I certainly intend to do it.” Army’s body made a slight move toward Vince, but the motion was arrested and he went rigid again. “You gentlemen have a nice day.” Vince turned and started across the floor.

  Army muttered to Paul that he’d be in the truck and strode toward the door as though he were intending to smash through the glass instead of opening it.

  Leah studied the two men whom Vince had made such a point of belittling. She recognized his fake friendliness for the cheap tactic it was; she’d seen it too many times. Who were they, and why was he behaving like that toward them? She watched the younger one stomp away and fling the door open just as Pistol reached it holding his mail carton.

  Leah lifted her cold coffee cup and pretended to blow into it as she avidly watched the postal worker cross the room, his large collection of keys jangling on his belt, and place the carton upon the counter. Towler took it and replaced it with the outgoing mail. Vince crossed casually toward them and dropped his envelope into the new carton, glancing up at Leah as he did so. She was careful to be busy looking at something else.

  She grabbed her car keys and made a point of calling out to Towler that she needed to get something out of her car and she’d be right back so that Vince could hear her. Pistol was still standing at the counter, sorting the envelopes by size, making them into neat, trim little bundles that he fastened with colored rubber bands before replacing them, like pressed laundry in orderly stacks, back into the carton.

  Leah went out the door without looking back. If she timed this just right, she might get a look at the address on Vince’s mysterious envelope, but she’d have to be careful. She’d come early this morning and parked just next to the red zone where the postal truck always pulled up. On the other side of her a large, beat-up pickup truck had squeezed into the space; on the side of it was painted PAUL’S PLUMBING in faded and chipped lettering. She opened her car door and leaned into the backseat, where she had deliberately left a folder, and pretended to look through it while she watched for Pistol to come out.

  A crash next to her made her straighten up so fast she bumped her head hard against the doorjamb. Extracting herself from the BMW, she he looked over the roof and watched as the young man she had just seen Vince talking to sent a thick metal pipe smashing down onto the floor of the flatbed for the second time.

  “Motherfucker,” he swore. A third time he brought it up over his head and swung down viciously, as though smashing through the skull of an unseen foe.

  A few people who had been making their way into the bank had halted, and were watching the naked display of rage in startled horror. The man’s brother came out of the bank and rushed forward.

  Leah watched, fascinated, as the older man placed a hand on his brother’s arm and said smoothly. “It’s okay; it’s all right. Come on, get in the truck.”

  Breathing hard, the angry young man hurled the pipe into the bed of the truck with an furious clatter.

  “Sorry, everybody!” The plumber, who Leah assumed was Paul, smiled sheepishly around at the onlookers. “Bad day; sorry.” He hurried into the driver’s seat and started the engine.

  As the truck backed out, Leah turned just in time to see Pistol putting the mail carton in the back of the truck. Clutching a legal-size envelope in her hand she approached him, careful to keep the postal truck between herself and the bank.

  “Excuse me, Pistol! Could I give you this?” She walked toward him, keeping the envelope near her body.

  He jumped slightly, as though surprised at being addressed. When she’d first started at the bank he’d trapped her into several long conversations, and she’d learned to studiously avoid him. “Sure,” he said, and held out his hand for the letter, but Leah kept it close to her and continued to advance. She couldn’t see into the carton yet.

  “Thanks, I forgot all about it. It’s one of those crazy days. You know what I mean? Wow, look at all the mail!” She leaned forward, feigning interest in the contents of the truck.

  “Busy day,” Pistol said. He looked as though he would be happy to settle in for a nice long chat.

  “Well, here you go.” She held out the envelope, asking, “Shall I just put it in this with the others?” She moved up next to the carton and glanced down into it. The manila envelope was facedown.

  “No!” Pistol’s hand shot out and took the letter. “I’ve got to sort it all so it goes into the right place at the station.”

  Leah pretended to be impressed. “Wow, look how neat you are! So then you go by what, zip code?”

  “Zip code, size, and postage. First-class, business, metered, mass mailings, all kinds.” Pistol was enjoying the attention.

  “What about, say, this one?” Leah plucked Vince’s envelope out of the carton and tried to read the address before Pistol took it out of her hand with a pos
sessive yank. It was the padded kind, thick, but surprisingly light.

  His face, under his beard, had gone slightly gray. “I’m afraid I can’t let you handle any mail after I’ve accepted it.” He narrowed his eyes at her slightly. “You have a nice day now.” He reached across in front of her to close the door, effectively blocking her from any further snooping. Her heart fell as she considered, for the first time, that the postman might not be ignorant of his baggage. How stupid could she be?

  “Oh, okay, thanks. You too!” Leah called out with a cheerfulness she did not feel, turning back to the bank with a growing sense of dread. The chill of knowing she’d done something foolish seeped through her.

  If Pistol were in on it, he would tell Vince about her snooping. The envelope had been addressed to a name and a business that she did not recognize.

  And now, she suspected, that did not exist.

  Chapter 32

  “Mom?”

  Greer turned in her chair, where she’d been staring into the fire. “Yes?”

  “It, uh, it happened again.” Joshua focused on the fire as well as he came in and sat in the chair next to hers to avoid the sudden hopefulness that came into her eyes. Damn it. What did she expect from him? He knew the answer, of course, and couldn’t blame her. It wasn’t expectation; it was hope. She hoped for the same thing he did: to find Joy.

  “They still haven’t heard from her?” he asked, glancing out the window at Luke and Whitney’s house, which sat with its lights shining feebly in the gloomy evening.

  “No, nothing.”

  “I suppose you didn’t expect them to,” Joshua said.

  “No. I hoped.” Greer’s voice was soft with emotion. He knew she was waiting for him to speak, so he braced himself and started in.