Mr. Real

by Carolyn Crane

  Paul gripped his beer. You’re at a party. You’re safe.

  And Alix needed him.

  It was a one-in-a-billion fluke that they’d come into contact again—he didn’t understand it. Had he sensed she was in trouble in some primal, intuitive way? That was all he could think of to explain it.

  Except magic.

  Well, he didn’t have to explain it—he’d arrived, and hell if he’d let her down. He’d let down his mother, running away and leaving her like he had. He’d never forgiven himself for not going back and rescuing her; he wouldn’t repeat the mistake now. There was so much to be ashamed of. But he was a man now, powerful and effective. He’d fought the Sir Kendall impersonator once already, and won. He was in charge here, he told himself. He’d protect Alix, get her away from this guy.

  Old chap.

  It was like this guy was saying it repeatedly on purpose, like he knew how it affected Paul. It made Paul feel like a dumb brute, but what could he do? He couldn’t attack the man. He couldn’t run. So he took it. Powered through it.

  He walked over to the little table and grabbed another beer from the cooler. He just needed to win her trust and cooperation.

  One positive thing: he and Sir Kendall and Alix would all be occupying separate rooms—You three will be in the three girls’ rooms, Alix’s mother had said. The parents seemed a bit religious; half the pictures on the walls had Bible passages printed on them. The Midwest. You didn’t see so much of that in L.A.

  Alix came over, grabbed her own beer from the cooler, and stood next to him, giving him one of her smirks. This was a girl who would have fun anywhere.

  “You sure he’s not wearing make-up?” Paul said.

  “You wish. Wouldn’t he be so mockable, then?”

  “He’s mockable without makeup.”

  “He heals fast. According to Karen, as a fictional character, he would heal quickly.”

  “You’re telling me Karen’s on board with this? I thought she distrusted Double-O-freakshow as much as I do.”

  “But not for the same reason. She distrusts him because of his non-human origins.”

  “So she won’t be ordering a hot life-sized sex slave of her own, anytime soon?”

  “You go ahead and joke all you want,” Alix said.

  Calls went up for Denali. A portly, red-nosed man came to the little table and grabbed a bottle of the stuff. “Replenishments for the troops!” He smiled apologetically, then marched back to the group, waving the new bottle over his head.

  Paul rolled his eyes. “Of all the sex slaves you could’ve had…”

  She shot him a look. “Shut it.”

  “Alix.” He caught her eye. “Alix. I have one word for you.” He paused. “One word.”

  She was trying not to smile—he could tell from the dimples on her cheeks. She knew exactly what he’d say. “Screw you.”

  “Denali. He drinks Denali.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” she said.

  “The real thing drinks beer, you know.”

  Alix raised an eyebrow. “Jealous?”

  “Have you ever tasted that shit? Because I have. I hate to break it to you, but it’s kind of like peach schnapps. Worse than that—it’s a liqueur based on peach schnapps. And he puts away one after another. Like it’s Jack Daniels or something.”

  She shook her head, but the little indents in her cheeks deepened. “Shut it,” she said.

  “Denali,” he whispered.

  Alix snorted. “Look, I know you hate him,” she said. “I got it.”

  “I don’t hate him,” Paul said, surprising even himself.

  “You want to pummel him.”

  “Fair enough.” Paul sucked down some beer. “And you’ll be good for your word? You’ll come through?”

  “That is my one and only thing right now, Paul. To come through on fixing this.”

  “Funny, that’s my thing, too.”

  Alix grinned. “No, it’s my thing,” she said, in her bright, sassy way.

  He laughed. “No, it’s my thing.”

  “Sor-ry, but no.” Alix swigged her beer. “My thing.”

  Paul smiled. He couldn’t take his eyes off her, and he felt so light in that moment, laughing and joking. Even with this lunatic just across the room impersonating Sir Kendall, saying Sir Kendall things, he felt okay. She’d calmed him. He could feel the darkness bearing back down even now, but for one quick second, it had been okay. He hadn’t felt this okay since he’d quit the Denali commercial. It was kind of amazing to know it was possible again.

  He was more determined than ever to help her now. He could never live as a happy person or be in a relationship—it was too late for him, and the stain on him seeped too deep. He’d settle for basic survival at this point, but he could make sure Alix was all right. He didn’t know what that meant yet, but he’d figure it out. He’d figure it all out.

  They talked about the house a bit. Alix told him about her bed and breakfast plans and different projects she’d undertaken. She made funny stories out of her failures, her do-overs, her dread of cleaning out the carriage house. He marveled, not at her ineptitude, which seemed to be the point of her stories, but at how she found humor wherever she looked. The way her brightness lit even the gloomiest corners. She told him about her attempts to learn about her mysterious aunt, and how that had led to her getting the magic computer program onto her machine. She made a big deal out of the things she’d learned about the woman, telling him that her aunt collected sword and sorcery books and 3D wildlife art.

  Eventually, Alix rejoined the party. He watched her laugh with her sisters, josh her parents. Her family was so different from her—awkward and serious. Alix seemed to be the fall guy, in a way. The clown. The butt of jokes. She would never have had a chance to soar in the shadow of those over-achieving sisters. But Paul had the intuition that the little family would’ve been lost without her. That friend, too—Karen—she needed Alix in a way Alix would never understand. Alix was the kind of girl who created a lively spark for calm, sober types to react to. Jarred them out of their monotony. Alix made people feel alive.

  Paul spoke with a few more people as the night wore on, mostly about the twins-separated-at-birth business fake Sir Kendall—Sir Langley—had filled their heads with. Paul hated the sham. This was a nice group.

  The people began to leave around eleven, and Sir Kendall insisted on helping clean up, though Paul got the distinct feeling he just wanted to put his nose everywhere.

  Which is exactly what the “real” Sir Kendall would do.

  He shook the idea out of his head.

  After the guests left, Mrs. Gordon showed the three of them to their rooms. Alix seemed to think it was all quite humorous, fake Sir Kendall and Paul each getting rooms that had walls plastered with girlhood posters. Sir Kendall got the New Kids on the Block room. Alix got her old room, with Green Day and Leonardo DiCaprio. Paul was the last to get assigned a room; Johnny Depp and the cast of 90210 were to watch over his bed.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Gordon,” Paul said. “I’m sorry to have crashed in. I know I wasn’t the most entertaining guest.”

  “You were a very polite guest who thought to wish us a happy anniversary,” she said, and then she squinted at him. “Oh, honey, have you had that looked at?”

  The cut above his eye; that’s what she meant. It had begun to throb. “I’m a fighter. This is normal.”

  “It’s not. That is not a nice scrape. You meet me in the kitchen.”

  “It’s your anniversary.”

  Alix’s mother pursed her lips. “Then you’ll indulge me, won’t you?” And then she simply pointed a finger toward the kitchen, as if her finger had the power to guide him. Which, as it turned out, it did.

  Paul marched obediently to the kitchen, feeling a mixture of emotions he couldn’t name. Grief. Want. He sat in the wooden chair as she came in, still wearing her festive green jacket over her green polka-dot top and matching green skirt.

  “It looks like i
t’s getting infected.” She set her first aid kit on the table and took out cotton balls and hydrogen peroxide.

  “I can do it.”

  “But you’ll let me do it, all the same.”

  As a fighter, he always had lots of guys swabbing and smearing things onto his face, especially in the ring. But this was different.

  Gently—so gently—she dabbed his cut with the cotton ball. He could feel it fizz, but most all, he could feel her care. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this kind of care. No—he could. It would’ve been his mother, so long ago. Before all the trouble. He missed her bitterly.

  And here was this woman he didn’t know, caring for him with a kind of naked goodness that made him want to sob. Sometimes, he worried he felt too much. Too much need. Too much rage. Too much shame.

  “Thank you,” he whispered. Lord, he was tired. From where he sat, he had a perfect view of the refrigerator, which was plastered with photos of Alix and her sisters. “You have a nice place. You can feel the love here.” Was that a stupid thing to say?

  “Thank you, Paul. We’ve all been very happy here,” she said.

  She worked in silence. He soaked up the feeling of her kind attention.

  “Tell me, how did you come to be in Malcolmsberg?” She asked after a bit. “You’re visiting your brother, then?”

  “I drove with a buddy. We drove out from Los Angeles. Taking a break from the fighting circuit. That was mostly the thought.” Christ! All these lies of Sir Kendall’s and Alix’s. He hated lies.

  “You drove.” This seemed to please her, that they’d driven. “So you’re there temporarily. On a break.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And did you win?”

  “What?” he asked.

  “This last fight? The one that’s got you looking like this.”

  “It wasn’t professional,” he said sheepishly.

  “Aha.” She regarded him with a scolding look.

  He looked down. “Sometimes you have to.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  The question shattered him a little. “All I can say is, I would do it again.”

  She dabbed silently. “You felt strongly about something.”

  “Yes. It was one of those things where you look wrong, but you know you’re right. I knew in my heart I was right. I know I’m right in what I’m doing.”

  He soaked up more of her care in the silence that followed. The kitchen felt silent and restful, like a cocoon.

  “Let me ask you,” she said, “did this fight have anything to do with Alix? She’s not in some kind of trouble, is she?”

  Things clicked into place suddenly. This fierce, good mother was interrogating him. She was a mother to Alix first and foremost. He didn’t mind. He understood.

  “Nah. More like unfinished business on my end. Alix is fine,” he said. Not quite a lie—she was, and he planned to make sure she continued to be. “She’s pretty excited about her bed and breakfast. Quite a place there.”

  Mrs. Gordon opened a tube of antibacterial gel, seeming to consider this. He wondered if she sensed what he’d left out. “This is going to sting, Paul.”

  “It’s okay.”

  She dabbed it on. “So you’re lending a hand out there?”

  “That’s my thought, as long as I’m passing through. To be of help. Though Alix likes to do her own thing. She has a firm vision of things.”

  Mrs. Gordon smiled. Her smile was pretty, like Alix’s. “I find it always better to seek common ground,” she said finally. “To work with a person rather than against her. Especially Alix.”

  Paul nodded.

  “There’s always common ground.” Mrs. Gordon pulled out the tape.

  Why had she repeated this? Was she delivering a message? Paul thought guiltily about the scene by the door, with Karen and him opposing Alix—even treating her like a child. Playfully, Alix had flipped them both off.

  “People want the same thing in the end, don’t you think?” she said.

  “I suppose,” he said. This was advice about Alix, he felt sure of it, disguised as life advice. What did people want in the end? He wanted to ask her, but he didn’t want to appear totally clueless. He was just trying to survive half the time.

  “So you’re staying there? At the house?”

  “For the moment,” Paul said.

  The kitchen clock ticked away the seconds of silence. After a spell, Mrs. Gordon said, “There’s something unholy about that house.”

  “Ah-nay-moo! Ah-nay-moo! Ah-nay-moo!” Alix grinned in the doorway, looking pleased with what was actually a pretty good parody of the song from The Omen. She tightened the ties of her fuzzy pink robe. “Such a bummer. The unholiness and all. I mean, do you know how hard it is to get any sleep when your head is constantly rotating three-hundred-and-sixty degrees?”

  Mrs. Gordon stared levelly at Alix. “There is no call for that.”

  Alix had removed her jewelry and lipstick and black eyeliner, and she looked stunning. Like a fresh-faced, rosy-cheeked, pink-haired model. How long had she stood there? Surely not more than a few seconds. She walked to the cupboard and pulled out a glass. “What were you guys saying about me?”

  “Your guest needs medical attention,” Mrs. Gordon scolded.

  “You should see the other guy,” Alix joked.

  “I don’t find it amusing,” Mrs. Gordon said. “This poor, polite boy, a guest in your house—”

  “He is polite. The minute he came through my door, I said to myself, this is such a polite boy!” She grinned at Paul. “Such a polite boy.”

  “It’s okay, Mrs. Gordon,” he said. “She’s been a very good hostess. Very thoughtful. I wanted to handle my injuries myself.”

  Alix squeezed her face into a look of mock suspicion. It was brilliant, really, what Mrs. Gordon said. Paul would find common ground with Alix. He would show Alix he was on her side. He was on her side.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  At precisely 11:47 a.m., Paul sat down on Alix’s front porch. By Alix’s calculations, the miraculous event was to take place within minutes. Paul peeled flecks of white paint off the wood rail and stared out at the gravel drive. It completed a loose loop in front of the house and led down through a thick growth of trees and saplings, whose tender buds and leaves looked neon green in the noontime sun. It would be a hot one.

  That morning, Alix’s mother had cooked breakfast for Alix, Sir Kendall, Mr. Gordon, and Paul—a delicious and endless breakfast of sausage, pancakes, and eggs. Paul had told her he didn’t know when he’d tasted a better breakfast, and he’d meant it. He’d helped her wash dishes afterwards. He’d felt good in that peaceful kitchen, away from Sir Kendall, who’d been holding court out at the table.

  Paul couldn’t think straight around Sir Kendall. It was so crazy. Sir Kendall really was a kind of kryptonite to him.

  The three of them had caravanned back from Minneapolis, Paul in Tonio’s Honda with its patched tire, and Alix and fake Sir Kendall in that ridiculous red sports car.

  Alix, Tonio, and Sir Kendall were out back in the carriage house with Lindy. Tonio and Alix were working together to occupy Sir Kendall during the time when the stuff was to appear, due to Alix’s big thing about keeping “the magic” a secret from Sir Kendall.

  He’d sit out there an hour, he’d decided. After that, he would find a way to get Alix to deal with this Sir Kendall pretender as the delusional man he was. Would she go along with it? She’d given her word.

  Paul was folding a peeled-off bit of paint from the porch into a stiff little square, when a spot of black appeared just over the driveway. He thought it was a bird, until it snapped out into a door, then morphed and widened into an enormous black truck.

  Paul straightened, aghast.

  It was the monster truck from the image, complete with monster faces painted on the sides, mammoth black tires kissing the ground, and chrome accents winking brightly.

  He stood as if drawn up by a string. “No
way.”

  He walked down the steps and headed down the driveway, dazed. This big thing, appearing out of nowhere. It certainly seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. A trick? Mirrors?

  The metal felt cool to the touch. He climbed up onto the rear bumper and saw the money in a kind of bale, fifties bundled up in twine and clear plastic strips, flush against a case of Rolling Rock beer.

  And beyond that lay the old heavy bag, like a giant sausage next to the weights bench. He clambered over and sat on the bag, ran his hands over the familiar weathered leather. It was the old bag from the school; he’d know it anywhere. An old friend. The bench had its same old scratches and scuffs, and he knew before he tipped it what he’d find scratched underneath, but he tipped it anyway, and there it was, the inscription he’d made and crossed out so many years ago: Kill G+G.

  It couldn’t be.

  Pulse racing, he pulled out his phone and called the old school, got hold of Leo Vasquez, who ran the place now.

  “Puma Reinhardt!” Vasquez was always happy to hear from Paul. “When are you coming up here next? We’re due for a workshop!”

  “I’m on the road at the moment,” Paul told him. “And I just have a weird request. Where are you right now? Are you in the dojo?”

  Vasquez was in the dojo, and yes, the weights bench and heavy bag were there like they always were. Same old stuff, Vasquez assured him.

  “You sure?” Paul asked.

  “Why would I lie?” Vasquez sounded annoyed. “I’m looking at them.”

  “Dumb question. Never mind.” Paul thanked him, got off the phone, and ran his hands over the heavy bag, which was at once familiar and disturbing now. How could it be? Weirder still, the truck had been an illustration. A realistic, computer-generated illustration, but an illustration, nevertheless.

  Magic.

  It was crazy. He touched the side of the truck, his mind reeling. Something unholy about that house, her mother had said.

  No freaking doubt.

  He looked up just then and saw Alix standing at the front door he’d crashed through just yesterday. She waved, a sarcastic little toggle of the hand, like a princess on a parade float, then she turned and strolled all the way down to the end of the porch, looking every inch the hot country girl in jean shorts and a white short-sleeved shirt. She sat down on the porch swing and began to rock it forward and backward. Smiling out at him.