She’s wearing a short black dress with a low-cut top that reveals a golden necklace. In her heels Fiona is taller than I am. She’s not quite smiling. It’s more like she’s … posing. Posing and waiting.
And, oh yeah, she’s a mannequin.
“Fiona is five years old and still as beautiful as the day she was born,” the man says as he puts a hand on my shoulder and guides me down the hall.
Suddenly Marsh doesn’t seem that creepy to me anymore. I really am regretting that I came here.
“You drove all this way out here to find me, yet you’ve hardly said a word since you arrived.”
Maybe that’s because I haven’t been this freaked out since, well, since the last time I was in a family room looking at a mannequin. In this case, there are probably about half a dozen of them surrounding me. All ladies … the guy’s own wonderful set of wives.
“My name is Alfred Graff. And, as you can see, I make these beautiful creatures.”
That’s what he said. Not mannequins or dummies or figures. He said creatures.
“What brings you to my home, Chris?”
My heart is slowing down a bit, and I notice the old man isn’t holding a gun or a knife or anything like that. He just holds a small container the size of his thumb that he keeps dipping his finger into and then spreads the contents over his lips. Which, once again, is sorta creepy.
“Did one of your, uh, ‘creatures’ recently escape?”
He laughs and glances at a figure right behind him. “A man seventy-seven years old no longer takes offense at comments like that. I’ve heard them all. I’ve been making these for a long time, Chris.”
“How do you know my name?” I ask again.
“There are quite a few people around here who know your name, Chris Buckley. Who know of your importance.”
“So you, uh—are you with Marsh? And Staunch?”
“With?” He says the word as if it’s a bad curse word. “This isn’t grade school, my boy. This isn’t the Cub Scouts. I am paid very well to do what I do and have been for quite a while.”
“Make mannequins?”
“Yes.”
The room is barely lit, so the figures that are all standing around us seem threatening, waiting to suddenly pop to life and attack me.
That’s just my luck. I’m finally in a room surrounded by beautiful and exotic women staring my way. Unfortunately, they’re fiberglass models that don’t breathe or speak or blink.
At least I hope they don’t.
“Who do you—”
“Why are you here?” Alfred interrupts in a deliberate and loud tone.
“A mannequin showed up in my cabin, and it was made by you.”
He nods, then dabs his finger in his little jar and rubs it over his lips. “Doesn’t surprise me in the least. Was it a lady? Curly blond hair?”
I nod, and suddenly the back of my neck feels sweaty.
“That was one of the last ones I made.”
“Who was it for?”
“Is that what you’re really wanting to know? Who asked me to make that mannequin? Is that your main question?”
“It’s one of them.”
Alfred stands and then walks over to a dark-haired dummy with bold eyes that seem to be bearing down on me.
“Do you believe that animals go to heaven, Chris?”
I shake my head, not sure what to say.
“I believe that animals are born without souls. They’re wonderful, don’t get me wrong. But they don’t have souls. Yet they are God’s creatures, and they can sense the spiritual world. Especially when that world is full of unrest. Am I not right?”
I think about Midnight, then about Iris’s bluebird, then about the random kinds of animals I’ve encountered around here.
“These creatures are the same,” he says as he puts his finger on the lips of the lady he’s standing next to and does the same sort of weird motion. “They are born without souls. They are harmless. They are merely … vessels.”
My skin crawls. Alfred seemed lost in his weird sort of act with the mannequin until saying that last word and looking at me.
Vessels.
“In most places in the world, these vessels would be merely that.” He takes his hand and knocks on the hard face. “Just hollow, empty figures. Beautiful, true, but empty. Yet Solitary, as you already know, Chris, is not like most places in the world. Trust me, I know. I’ve seen what’s out there. This is truly a special place. And you, my dear boy, are truly a special person.”
We jumped from creepy to blood-curdling the moment this guy said vessels.
Because in a way, it clicked. Not in a rational, oh-okay, two-plus-two-equals-four sort of way.
I just suddenly get what he’s talking about, and there’s nothing about it that I like.
“Do you believe in magic, Chris?”
I stare at this ordinary-looking guy who I’d never pay any attention to on the street. Yet now I study his every move and action and word.
“I’m coming to believe in a lot of things these days.”
Alfred walks to the back of the room and starts to slowly stroke the red hair of a mannequin that appears to be laughing. “There is a dark magic in the world, a magic I’ve witnessed with my own eyes, a kind that I used to try and tell Iris about, though she never wanted to hear it or believe it.”
Did he just say …
“I told her, but she didn’t want any part of it.”
I think my mouth must be hanging open, because he looks my way and laughs. “Yes, Chris. Iris. Your lovely Iris.”
“You know Iris?”
He walks over to another figure that I haven’t noticed before. This one is sitting in a chair in the corner of the room. As if watching from afar, not enjoying herself.
She looks like Iris. A young Iris that I once saw in the pictures.
This is so incredibly wrong. All of it.
“I’m still waiting. Still hoping. Still wanting.”
He doesn’t say anything more.
For a moment I look back at the hallway and the front door.
“You can leave anytime you want,” Alfred says. “There won’t be any magic show tonight. If that’s what you’re wanting.”
“How long have you known Iris?”
“Ever since she moved here. And before she lost her son. That poor sick child. I offered to help. I offered to do anything possible. Anything. But she refused. She refused to believe. But people always have to learn the hard way. Don’t they, Chris?”
14. Help
Back home I get an email from my father. It’s strange because he normally doesn’t send a lot of emails, and the timing of this is a bit suspicious. Yet I believe it’s him because of what he says.
Hey, Chris. Hope you and Mom are doing well. I began reading Ephesians and thought of you when I read these verses:
“God decided in advance to adopt us into his own family by bringing us to himself through Jesus Christ. This is what he wanted to do, and it gave him great pleasure. So we praise God for the glorious grace he has poured out on us who belong to his dear Son.”
This applies to me as well as you, Chris. And please know this: even though I’m up here in Chicago and will be here for a while, I’m praying for your mother and you. I still pray that we will be a family again, and that the work God is doing will continue on in Mom.
Stay strong and let me know if there’s anything you need.
Dad
It’s strange to hear Dad saying this stuff to me.
I think about that guy in the driveway of our old home as I left Illinois and vowed to never look back. I hated that man and assumed I was going to hate him all my life. I didn’t know that he was as confused and struggling as I am right now.
/> Stay strong.
The words encourage me. I certainly need as much help as I can get.
I don’t have any classes with Mr. Meiners, so I have to make a special trip to see him right after morning break. I make it to his homeroom where he teaches history all day long. He’s sitting at his desk, grading papers.
“Sorry to interrupt,” I say as I enter the room.
Mr. Meiners has a thick beard and thick dark hair. Sometimes I wonder if he used to be a hippie when they had those—back in the sixties or seventies, I think. I’m not as good with history as he is.
“How can I help you?”
“Well, I’m just, uh—”
I’m not sure how to ask him. I’m not even sure what to ask him.
“Someone told me that you might be able to help me. To really help me.”
His look changes. Is it concern? Frustration that I’m bothering him?
Whatever it is, it looks serious.
“Do you need help in one of your classes?”
I shake my head.
I don’t know if I’m being watched. Or if this room is bugged. Or if Mr. Meiners is with them.
“It’s not school related?” he asks me in a direct, quick manner.
This was a bad idea.
“Well, not really.”
“Then sorry. Why don’t you ask your guidance counselor? Or homeroom teacher?”
This doesn’t seem like Mr. Meiners. I’ve always seen him to be a caring, thoughtful teacher. The least he could do is ask me how I need help.
“You better get to your next class, Chris,” he says, going back to grading papers.
I nod and want to say something else, but I don’t.
I exit the room and hear the door shut behind me. Students are heading this way for next period.
Well, that was a major fail.
I head to my next class, wondering why Mr. Meiners was so rude and uncaring.
Maybe M&Ms stands for something more mysterious.
“The weekend is coming up,” Kelsey tells me.
“It’s only Thursday,” I say.
“That’s what I mean. It’s approaching.”
“Oh.”
I love doing this. Playing games with her and teasing. It’s cute because it’s so easy. And because she always acts shy and unsure of herself.
I know why she’s asking about the weekend. This is one area—maybe the only area—where I can be quiet and mysterious.
It’s obvious to me that I’m going to see her at some point. But it’s certainly not obvious to her.
“I’m hoping someone has a big party I can go to,” I tell her.
“You are?”
“You know me. The party guy.”
“Since when?”
“Since that one time I showed up and saw you all glammed up.”
She turns red, and I figure I should be nice.
“Or maybe I can skip the parties and just hang out,” I say. “With you.”
“Sure.”
It’s after lunch, and we’re near the entrance to the school. Normally we might be outside, but considering it’s freezing out there, we’re hanging inside around the corner from the cafeteria. It’s a good place to talk because it’s away from everybody.
“Kelsey?”
“Yeah.”
“Listen—I’m just kidding around with you.”
“You like doing that.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be mean. You’re just so cute when you’re being shy.”
“Sorry.”
“See—like that. Don’t. Don’t apologize. Don’t be shy. You don’t have to anymore. This isn’t art class, and I’m not the new kid. Okay?”
She nods, brushing her blonde hair back over her shoulder.
“Look—you know this, but maybe I’ll remind you. I like you. A lot. Okay?”
Kelsey looks up with innocent, sweet eyes that you could never paint if you tried a thousand times.
“I didn’t forget about Chicago just because we’re not there anymore,” I tell her.
“I didn’t either,” she says.
Her comment makes me smile. It’s almost as if—as if she’s been waiting somehow to tell me that.
I start to tell her more, about how worried I am about this semester, about how things might suddenly get tough and dangerous. I want to tell her to be careful and don’t talk to strangers and stay away from the dark woods and all that, but I don’t say anything.
I don’t want to ruin this moment. This quiet, simple moment.
“I want to see you this weekend. As much as I can. Okay?”
She nods.
A part of me knows that this is dangerous. For her. She’s not just playing with fire. It’s an inferno she’s dealing with. And she doesn’t even know it.
At the end of the day I find a note in my locker. It’s a printout of a Word document in simple type.
The only way to get help is to do so without another soul knowing or seeing.
There are ways.
You’ll hear from me soon.
I fold up the letter and look around. Of course nobody is there watching me. Maybe someone’s hiding in a locker, glancing out the tiny slits at the top.
Or maybe, seriously, this is from someone who overheard my conversation and is playing another mind game with me.
Something tells me that’s not the case.
I have a feeling this is from Mr. Meiners.
What about Mr. Marsh? Huh? He could be M&M.
I go to find Kelsey to tell her good-bye for the day. I try not to dwell on that last thought, the one about Marsh, but it stays around.
15. A Little Guidance
“Okay, so Chris Buckwheat.”
“Buckley,” I tell Mr. Taggart quickly.
It reminds me of something my skinheaded friend Brick from summer school might say, but that’s just to joke around. Mr. Taggart doesn’t joke. He’s the butt of jokes.
He nods and looks through the files on his desk. This office is more like a closet where people just toss in random folders and garbage. When I first heard I was supposed to meet with him today, I thought there was a mistake.
“I had Ms. Tooney last year.”
“Yeah, well, things change. Here it is.”
I haven’t seen Mr. Taggart since summer school, where I met Lily and the rest of the gang. I miss those carefree days, when this guy across from me would stroll in with his shirt half untucked and his hair (what little he has) half combed and make a halfhearted effort at teaching.
Staring at his unshaven face and glassy eyes, I see nothing much has changed.
“So have you taken your ACT or SAT tests?”
I shake my head.
“Applied to any schools?”
Once again, I shake my head.
Mr. Taggart looks at the few things in my folder. It’s probably as pitiful as this blank vanilla office.
“So are you planning on going to college?” he asks me.
“Yeah. I guess.”
“Kinda late to be guessing. You better get on it. And I’ll tell you this—just ’cause they got me being a guidance counselor this year doesn’t mean I’ll be riding your butt. I don’t care. Really. Kids these days are graduating with honors from amazing universities, and they still end up going back home to live with Mommy and Daddy. It’s a different world out there. Nobody is looking out for you.”
“That’s truly inspiring,” I say with a totally straight face.
Mr. Taggart looks at me for a second, a scowl on his face. Then he realizes I’m joking and starts to chuckle.
“That’s a good one.”
“I try,” I say.
“You were in summer school, right? The session with the hottie?”
“I think her name was Lily, not hottie.”
He already looks bored and ready to go back to doing the nothing he was doing when I came in.
“Look, Buckley—you better get on this college thing.”
“I always figured I’d go somewhere in Illinois.”
“You gotta apply to those too.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“What’s your grand plan for life?”
I want to live past graduation day and Memorial Day and then get far away from here.
“I don’t know. Maybe be in a band.”
“Play any instruments? Sing?”
I shake my head.
“Maybe you want to start there,” he tells me in a deadpan way.
I kinda got other things going on.
“Get on one of those tests, and pick out some schools. Hey—junior colleges aren’t bad. I went to one.”
I feign a smile and nod.
I leave his office feeling inspired to take on the world.
16. Friday Night
My date with Kelsey is going to have to wait until tomorrow since she’s doing something with her parents at their church. I’m not sure what kind of thing people do at church on a Friday night, but I didn’t ask. Asking might mean she’d invite me, and I just—I’m not ready for that.
Not just yet.
I feel tired and restless and bored and anxious in this empty cabin.
For some reason, I’m thinking about my age.
Seventeen is not thirteen, but it sure isn’t twenty-seven. It is almost. It is not quite there. It is about time and anxious to move on and does anyone care?
It’s big and tall but not enough to be legal or official.
Seventeen is so close but not just yet.
Not just yet.
I listen to music on my headphones and scan the Internet, trying not to think of my age. Trying not to think of my fate. Trying not to think, but letting others think for me. To talk for me. To show for me. To act out for me.
I’ve got a million choices at my fingertips, and it feels good.
My room feels cold, but I turn up the volume on my headset, and the cold seems to stay away.
Hurt: A Novel (Solitary Tales Series) Page 5