“You look beautiful, Angelfish. I bought that dress for Joleen a long time ago, but she never wore it. Not even once, before she left.”
Loren put down the orange juice and slid out a vinyl chair for her. “This is your place. I gave you the channel cat that wasn’t burnt too awful bad.”
Martha sat, and the vinyl cushion exhaled. The battered fish on her plate was headless, its blackened tail twisted upward as though in a death throe. Next to the fish, a pile of emerald peas with a square of margarine on top, melting viscously. Martha choked back a fresh wave of nausea.
Loren started eating and smiled at her, his mouth moving in slow, pleased circles. She took the paper napkin, which was folded in a triangle, and placed it in her lap. She picked up the wood-handled fork and rolled one of the peas around, trying to buy time, to think of something to do, something to avoid offending the crab-man, who, after all, had shown her kindness. She stabbed a few of the peas onto the tines of the fork and raised them toward her mouth. She felt faint and her vision wavered. Don’t black out.
There was a thunk and Martha’s face was against the plate. She could see peas rolling away from her, across the Formica.
“Angelfish. Are you all right?” Loren was standing, moving toward her. Martha righted herself, breathing heavily, shaking her head. She wiped margarine off her nose with the napkin.
“Is it too warm in here for you?” Loren said. “Getting kind of hot. I’d better turn on the AC.”
Loren waddled to the window unit on the paneled wall and turned a plastic knob. The air conditioner shuddered to life. He went to an adjacent window and turned a hand crank to shut a pair of aluminum windows. The windows stopped a few inches before closing fully.
“Just one minute, Angelfish,” Loren said. “I always have to push these closed from the outside.”
Loren opened the front door and shambled out. Martha heard him thrashing in the hedges outside the aluminum window. She looked around, wondering where the back door to the house might be. Now’s the time, Martha. You need to vanish.
She went into the kitchen, past the sink and the greasy stove, and located the back door. She turned the knob and it opened onto a screened-in porch.
A white freezer unit hummed against one wall, alongside a bank of aluminum cabinets. She limped across the porch, pushed open the torn screen door, and went through, then down a set of concrete steps and onto the unkempt grass, rough against her bare feet. She scanned the small yard—overgrown garden, clothesline strung between galvanized posts, cinder blocks. One side of the yard was lined with dense hedges. Martha heard Loren’s voice calling out from inside the house and she gimped toward the hedges. She got down on her hands and knees and burrowed between the branches, pulling the voluminous dress in behind her. She heard the screen door open and swing shut. She waited.
“ANGELFISH?” Loren stood on the concrete steps, gazed back and forth across the lawn.
Martha forced her way farther into the branches, which scraped painfully against her skin. She forced herself through to the other side and tumbled onto softer grass. Her leg twisted and she winced, clutching handfuls of crabgrass. It felt as if someone had jammed a hot poker into her calf.
She forced herself onto her feet and hurried across the yard, passing a plastic play fort and a sandbox, and reached a chain-link fence with a gate at the far end. She lifted the latch on the gate and entered an alleyway.
The alley was enclosed by garage stalls, cinder-block walls, Dumpsters, trash barrels. She wanted to hurry, to put space between herself and Loren, but now each step shot missiles of agony into her leg. Keep moving, Martha. You’ve got to go somewhere. They want to kill you. She looked into a Dumpster and noticed an assortment of discarded objects next to it—a box of dog-eared paperbacks, some badminton rackets, an old toaster oven. A broom handle stuck out of the Dumpster. Attached to the other end of the handle was a paint roller, caked with dried paint. She pulled it out and slid the roller under her armpit and put the end of the pole against the pavement, testing it. Better than nothing. She hobbled on.
—
Martha emerged from the alley with no thought in her mind but to get somewhere, someplace to hide. It was still morning, but the sun had disappeared behind clumps of gray clouds, making the residential landscape look like the inside of a fish tank. Not a soul in sight, yet Martha knew they were there, concealed, waiting—evil faces lurking behind each window and door, watching her pass like some reanimated corpse. Watching with disdain and terror.
She passed a cigarette and magazine store, its door closed, plastered with advertising stickers, shielded by burglar bars. She paused, holding onto the bars, mesmerized by the words. CASH 3. FANTASY 5. RED BULL. They might contain a vital message. Martha’s head began to spin. She pulled herself away and continued.
In the next block the residential area gave way to an industrial landscape. Neat rows of brick buildings, with small signs naming the businesses within. Through one of the alleys, Martha could see the flaking hull of a massive tanker ship docked in the distance. Steel cranes rose against an overcast sky. Deserted. The whole world, horrified at the sight of her. Watching, hiding.
Martha stopped at one of the wider alleys and rested against a brick wall, her leg throbbing. The humidity pressed down on her, like a fat child on her shoulders. At the same time she felt light, floating, and she knew this was from the winged hunger that descended on her in the marsh, stealing her life-force through a million pinpricks. Her skin itched like fire, but she lacked the energy to scratch.
To the west, tall radio towers. The red lights on top winked malevolently against the darkening sky.
She gave in to her exhaustion, sat on a low concrete wall, and shut her eyes. Paisley shapes floated in lazy circles.
I’ve missed you, Martha.
Martha opened her eyes. Lenny leaned against the bricks, one knee drawn up, his mottled gray tennis shoe resting on the sidewalk. His white knee poked through a hole in his jeans like a bleached bone. Have you missed me?
Martha closed her eyes again. She inhaled the familiar scent of Lenny’s clove cigarette, and found herself grateful for the company. “In a way.”
Then why’d you try to get rid of me, Lovie?
“Because Vince told me you weren’t good. He said—”
It hurts, you know.
Martha looked down at her knees. “I’m sorry.”
Lenny took a puff of the cigarette and bent back the toe of his canvas sneaker, exposing jagged cracks in the rubber sole. Well, let’s let bygones be bygones, shall we?
Martha nodded.
I’m the one who really cares about you. I’m the only one who ever did.
“My father loved me.”
He’s gone.
“It was an accident. Things weren’t supposed to happen that way. It was just bad luck.”
Now, Lovie, rationalize all you want. I’m just here to talk some sense. You don’t really know where you’re goin’, do you?
Martha shook her head.
But no matter where you go, they’re going to find you, right? It’s just a matter o’ time.
Martha nodded again.
So, Lovie, ain’t it about time you took charge of the situation? Ain’t it about time we started callin’ the shots?
“How can I?”
There’s a way. There’s always a way.
“I have to think about that child,” Martha said. “He needs my help.”
You’re in no shape to help anyone. Just look at yourself. You never have been. The sooner you face up to that, the better for everyone concerned.
Martha held on to the concrete wall, thinking about that. A trail of ants marched along near her bare foot. “I just wanted to do that job. I wanted to write that book. I wanted to be something.”
Lenny took a long draw on the bent cigarette, his face scrunching in concentration. He released the white smoke in a long, slow jet, like a teakettle. Let me lay down some facts for you, Lovie. I’m t
he only one who tells you the truth. It so happens that you were dealt out the worst poker hand in life. A deuce-to-seven low. You were a mistake. A cock-up. A blight on the face of the Earth. There’s nothin’, no amount of good work, can ever undo that. That’s why they want to destroy you. But why let them do the job? At least take charge of your own destiny, Lovie.
Lenny snuffed the remains of his butt on the sole of his shoe, twisting it back and forth. Martha considered his words. It was a familiar refrain.
“Okay, maybe I don’t matter,” Martha said. “I don’t even care about myself, anyway. But I have to help that child. He needs my help, he’s reaching out to me. I’m the only one who’s receiving his messages. I may be the only one who knows about him.”
Lenny put his feet on the pavement, kicked the dead cigarette butt into the gutter, folded his hands across his bony knees, and leaned toward her. Sorry to break it to you, Lovie, but you’re already too late. You’ve failed again. He leaned closer, his stained teeth showing. His breath smelled of stale vomit. That wee pup is dead.
“No.” A frustrated rage was boiling up inside her. She scooped up a handful of gravel from the ground and flung it. The pebbles flew through Lenny’s skin, ripped it like wet tissue.
“He isn’t dead! He isn’t!”
Martha pushed against the wall, forced herself to stand. Her vision went black for an instant. She tottered on her makeshift crutch.
You’ll never learn, will you, Lovie? The gashes in his face knit together, resealing.
Martha turned and wobbled on. She heard a rheumy cackle from behind.
The sky got darker as she followed the narrow blacktop past monotonous rows of warehouse buildings and they gave way to a stretch bordered by scrubby trees and swirls of white sand. And beyond that, finally—something.
Clusters of brick buildings perched atop a bluff that overlooked the wide green river. On one side a shipyard, on the other, trees and steeples, and farther down the waterway, the angular trusses of a high bridge, like sails on a vast ship. It was a city, much larger than Amberleen. This place is familiar, Martha thought. You’ve been here before. Once, long ago. Where? When?
Martha made her way down to the street that ran along the riverfront, her senses bombarded by a chaos of voices and impressions, the pain in her leg alone nearly causing her to pass out. Her throat was dry, her mouth like chalk. She realized if she was to keep going, she would have to get a drink of water, and soon. She picked her way along the cobblestones in front of a Coast Guard station, where the boats rocked in the choppy water. A few uniformed men were working there, pulling ropes around, securing hatches.
Careful, Martha. They can hear your every thought.
Restaurants, bars, and shops lined the waterfront—all strangely familiar. Martha took hold of a metal lamppost to steady herself. She read the raised letters in the metal access panel below her feet: SAVANNAH ELECTRIC.
Yes, yes, that’s it. Her mind flashed back to another time, a happier time. Fourth grade. Georgia history class. Field trip. She remembered touring a museum here with her friend Renée. There was a gift shop…ice-cream cones eaten at a sunny table…
But the street was different then, buzzing with activity. Tourists, shoppers. Today it was deserted, artificial, like a movie set. A gray sky, the stores and restaurants closed, shutters drawn, tables stacked and chained.
It’s you, Lovie, Lenny said. No one can stand the sight of you.
Martha leaned against the lamppost and tried to think. A paper cup skated down the street on its edge, animated by a gust of shifting wind. The air felt electric, anticipatory.
Farther down the street, a utility truck. A man on a ladder was nailing a sheet of plywood across the plate-glass windows of a storefront. Directly across from her, a man wearing an apron stepped into the courtyard of a restaurant. He was clearing the outdoor tables, collapsing umbrellas, stacking plastic chairs. Near the edge of the patio was a table with uncleared dishes and a goblet of water, nearly full.
Martha smacked her dry lips and watched. The man lifted a stack of chairs, backed through the doorway, and disappeared into the restaurant. She glanced up and down the street, then hobbled quickly across the cobblestones.
Martha reached a low trellis that separated the patio and looked at the breakfast remnants—a wedge of cantaloupe, skillet potatoes, and the water goblet. The liquid looked pristine, refreshing. Martha reached for it.
“HEY.” The man in the apron was there again, rushing across the patio. Martha pulled back.
“Move along, now.” The man stood on the other side of the trellis, holding a cork tray pressed against his chest. “There’s nothing for you here. Move along, or I’ll have to call the police.”
Martha turned away from him, a flush of shame rising inside her. She limped toward the sidewalk.
“Better get yourself into a shelter before the storm gets here,” the man muttered, gathering the dishes onto his tray.
Martha reached the sidewalk and leaned against the brick wall, her leg throbbing, and looked out toward the street. The sky was darker now, twilight dark. In the distance, the great bridge, with its towering trusses, showed movement. A line of cars, like tiny beetles, inched along its length.
They’re running away, Lovie. Running away from you. Why not do them a favor? Look at that river. It’s safe there. You could sink into darkness, vanish forever. That’s what everyone wants.
Martha considered Lenny’s words, their seductive promise, as she scanned the street. She should have noticed it sooner—a black-and-white police cruiser pulling up to a curb. She glanced around for a place to hide, saw an alleyway, and stumbled toward it.
She closed half the distance, but not fast enough, because he was already there, blocking her. Crisp black uniform, brown hair, shoes that gleamed, even in this morning’s strange, overcast light.
Martha turned away and looked at the pavement. If you concentrate very hard, you can be invisible.
“Ma’am?”
Martha wanted to bolt, but found herself frozen to the pavement, as if she were standing in a pool of tar.
“Ma’am, do you have someplace to go?”
Martha looked at his black shoes. They shone unnaturally—too bright, too close.
“Ma’am?”
Martha lifted her head, taking in his creased trousers, his gun, his badge and name tag—LT. TANNER—and his face. He was young and handsome, concerned.
“Do you know about the storm, ma’am?” He had warm, caring eyes, like Vince. “This area is under evacuation order. Do you have someplace to go?”
He’s lying, Lenny said. Just look into his mince pies. You can tell. Don’t speak. That’s the most important thing.
“Can you hear me? Do you understand what I’m saying?” Tanner scrutinized her. His eyes were not menacing, only worried. But his eyes were also invading her, reading her mind, learning her secrets.
Martha looked away from him. The sign in the coffee shop window read CLOSED. Walk away. Just walk away, and he’ll lose interest.
Martha took a step toward the sidewalk, stumbled. Her vision went dark for an instant and when it cleared, Tanner was holding her by the elbows.
“You’re hurt, aren’t you? Here, sit down. Nice and easy, that’s it, just sit here on the curb.” Martha didn’t resist. The curb was hard under her butt, her posture awkward. She held on to her knees to steady herself.
“Just stay right there for a minute,” Tanner said. “I’ll be right back.”
Martha heard his shoes clop on the pavement. She turned to watch him as he reached through the window of the squad car and pulled out the radio mic. “Radio ten-fifty.”
“Forty-five, go ahead.”
“Injured person, possibly homeless. Request ambulance.”
“Copy. Forty-five, what’s your location?”
“River Street and Fourth, right in front of Ambrosia Coffee…”
You shoulda listened to me, Lovie. Lenny lowered himself to the c
urb alongside Martha.
The radio squawked. “Copy. Stand by…there’s an ambulance available from St. Joseph’s. Should be able to get over there in ten, fifteen minutes. Ten-four.”
“Copy.”
“Forty-five, what’s the description?”
Lenny ran a nicotine-stained finger in and out of a hole in the canvas of his sneaker. The game is up. They’ve got you by the short and curlies. But we always knew they would win. We knew it all along, didn’t we?
Lieutenant Tanner looked toward Martha. “Female, I’d say mid-twenties, about five feet tall, thin, dark hair….Don’t know, she won’t speak. Possibly deranged. Some kind of rash on her skin, injury on her right leg, gray eyes.”
“Copy. Ambulance en route.”
Tanner put the radio back in the car and walked over to her and crouched down, almost to her eye level, hands on his knees. His eyes were warm, compassionate. Martha allowed herself to look at them and felt herself yielding. She wanted to be taken care of.
“Don’t worry. They’re sending help. We’ll get you to someplace safe.”
Martha buried her face in her knees. His kindness was unbearable; it burned her like a hot wire.
Tanner stood and walked back to the squad car.
Martha looked up, across the choppy highway of the river. She was facing east, toward the ocean, where the sky was darker and more ominous. It looked as if someone had hung a black curtain that extended all the way to the horizon. Silver serpent tongues darted silently within its folds.
Now, see what you’ve done, Lenny said. See what you’ve stirred up with your churning thoughts. How many more people will have to die because of you, Lovie? How many?
Chapter 25
Raindrops gathered on the windshield of Aubrey Morris’s Tahoe as it hurtled along the island road, spuming up sand and gravel. Trees leaned in the wind ahead of him and a small leafy branch broke off and landed on the windshield, catching the edge of a wiper.
A familiar sight swung past in the gloom overhead. Blue letters, white disk—PURE. Not a real gas station anymore, leastwise not since the late sixties. Now it was just a place where Bo Claret sold boiled peanuts and bait during the peak fishing season. Morris wondered if it would be torn down for the development or made into a coffeehouse or some such, a quaint souvenir amid the golf cart trails, shopping centers, and sleek new homes that would soon line this forsaken track.
The Girl in the Maze Page 20