“Do you like it?” Eva begs.
“Yes. Thank you. I do.”
Eva sits back, deflated, but there’s no way for Lucy to make herself sound more enthusiastic. She turns back through the pages, pretending to examine each one though her vision’s blurring with the strain. There she is at about four or five, petting a kitten she can’t remember; she thinks it might be one of the decrepit beasts wandering the house now till she realizes that’s impossible, it’s been what, at least twenty-five years since that picture was taken.
On the next page there’s a small cropped black and white of her and Sean in swimsuits, side by side at the beach. She glares out from under her bangs, clutching a plastic shovel like it’s a weapon. He’s grinning, gap-toothed, his scrawny body all joints and shadows. No more than eight or nine, gripping her hand like a big brother. She turns the page. Comes to a photo of her infant self in a onesie. The lack of chronology in how Eva arranged the album is bizarre. The picture is terrible to look upon, the tiny face etched with grief, the little O-shaped mouth. Eva reaches over and taps the page, smiling.
“I remember that day. You were less fussy than usual, so we took pictures. You were such a demanding little thing,” she says. “Do you know we thought you might have some sort of disorder?”
Lucy knows. She’s heard it a thousand times. Eva carries on with her favorite tale of the doctor who threw his hands up in despair and said they must go to another specialist, he couldn’t take it anymore. Lucy goes back through the photos, considering Eva in her middle-age, grinning with delight next to the cradle. As for her da, Frank, he looks unsettlingly happy: she never knew him like this. Not that she can recall, anyway.
“Don’t be sad,” Eva admonishes. “I didn’t mean to make you sad.”
Lucy is suddenly affected by a horrible tenderness for the sagging, soft pale skin, the sparse hair swept back so carefully with a salon brush. She bends her head, struggling against the urge to leap up and out of here.
“We all wish we could be young again,” Eva sighs. “That’s time for you.”
Eva opens her presents, gasping and oohing with childish delight. She inhales the soap aromas, unwraps one and places it on the kitchen sink. She props the Amazon card on the secretary desk like it’s an award. They eat. Lucy clears the table, shooing Eva away, You cooked, I clean, stop it. She sets a pot on for tea. Eva retreats to her easy chair in the parlor where she likes to look out the picture window at the bay and read her romances. While the water heats up, Lucy trudges up the stairs to perform a cursory check on the house. It smells stale and musty, more so than downstairs. Her bedroom’s to the right, the door ajar. She glances in to verify there aren’t any leaks. Eva keeps the room just the way it was when Lucy was carted off to foster care: purple bedspread, stuffed animals waiting in a row, books with their spines lined up flush. It resembles the enshrined room of a dead person, as if Lucy never actually came back. When she does spend the night, sometimes she feels like a ghost.
At the opposite end of the hall is Eva’s room, a stifling place of draperies and patterned covers, ancient, dusty lamps, a vanity table with the never-used family heirloom brush, comb, and mirror laid in perfect symmetry. All seems in order, but when she checks the hall bath, it’s particularly close and damp. Upon inspection, Lucy finds scattered mold dots above the shower that indicate poor ventilation. She flips the switch for the ceiling fan. It isn’t working, and who knows how long it’s been. She’ll tell Sean to see to that. She gives the sink a quick rinse, knowing Eva can’t see the soap scum on the porcelain, then opens the medicine cabinet, sighing at the jungle of bottles large and small, expired creams, medications, old toothbrushes, used Q-tips, ancient makeup. She notices a steady drip from the bathtub faucet, another repair to deal with. She counts one second, two seconds, plink. One second, two seconds, plink.
The pot starts to whistle, and it’s built to a screech by the time she comes back downstairs. She pours two cups and carries them in on a tray, the way Eva prefers. She compliments the miniature plastic tree with its blinking lights and crowded ornaments, some of which Lucy made in grade school: a pair of mittens with her handprints, a camel colored with crayons. They sit in silence for a time, and then Eva gradually begins to talk, as is her wont, and Lucy listens as best she can. Eva tells about how she used to swim right out to the sandbar. How she and Phyllis used to steal old McManny’s boat and take it out to the islands. She tells about clamming and cook fires and the summer her father painted this house and it all started peeling a week later. She stays back in her own childhood, and it’s not senility, Lucy knows. It’s because she’s happier with it than what came later.
When it’s time to go, Eva calls Jonas Wheeler to give him a heads up he’s got a fare on the way. Lucy promises she’ll come again soon. She leaves twenty-five dollars in the secretary drawer for Eva’s next trip to Hingham, reminds Eva several times it’s there. An eldercare van picks up Eva once a week to take her on errands. Eva loves it. She dresses in her Sunday best and acts like she’s going to visit the queen. She starts talking about how this week she’ll be getting cut flowers, even though it’s such a luxury, and so Lucy digs around for an extra ten bucks and sets it aside. Then, mindful of Eva’s failing memory, she withdraws the money from the drawer and places it under the jade cat figurine on the table in the front hall.
“You’re fine with your bills, I did them all online,” she reminds her, “so don’t send any checks, O.K.?”
“You’re too good to me, honey,” Eva says tremulously.
Lucy embraces her. She smells lavender oil, and beneath that, the unmistakable odor of a body collapsing.
“Are you sure you won’t stay?” Eva asks.
“I’m sorry, I can’t, Ma.”
“There’s always a next time,” Eva says brightly. Her smile exudes sorrow and affection and the longing for Lucy to come back sooner than they both know she will. Lucy turns away. At the bottom of the steps, she gives a last little wave.
“Get inside,” she calls. “It’s too cold.”
She trudges fiercely down the street, her head bent in the wind. The walk is a good twenty minutes through residential streets, the houses strung with icicle lights, driveways clogged with the cars and trucks of those visiting for Christmas dinner. The town’s festooned for the holidays, dripping with greens and ribbons and giant blow-up Santas bobbing in the wind. She passes the convenience store with its broken payphone and broken people loitering outside, smoking; she passes the restaurants and shops and the hardware store where she was once caught stealing a box of nails. She walks fast and with purpose, dreaming of the train and the South Station bar where she’ll buy an outrageously priced whiskey and have a smoke before she heads on to her ten p.m. call. As she sets off across the parking lot behind the Wheeler’s, she sees a truck sweeping past; Sean hits the horn once, a cracked little beep that’s barely audible, and then he’s gone.
BACK WHEN SHE FIRST got tagged, she kept calling and visiting Eva like usual. She didn’t think it mattered. But eventually, it came to Theo’s attention.
You must forget your past life, he told her. It was a falsehood.
She’d felt that way herself, but still, the way he said it sounded harsh. Can’t I visit just sometimes? she pleaded. I mean, Eva, she gets all worked up if I fall out of touch.
We do not spend time with people unless we have to.
I know. I just thought—
You thought what? That you would be exempt?
She blushed with embarrassment. Of course she’d thought that. She was Lucy-goosie, his special find, his treasure. I won’t visit again, she promised.
She did try to stick to her word, but Eva kept calling, and besides, she was homesick. Theo didn’t have to know, she reasoned. If she just went occasionally, it would be all right. She was possessed of that dumb sense of invincibility particular to youth; the Nafikh made them perfect, after all. So a mere few weeks after he’d given her that lecture, she went to Hu
ll, ate pie and shot darts at Maggie’s Shack with Sean. She spun tales about how she was making money, she hadn’t needed college, she and her boyfriend would get married soon—that one was for Eva’s sake.
She came back to find Julian smoking on the stoop, butts scattered around his feet. He was livid. You can’t ever go there again, you hear?
What does it matter? He’ll never know!
Julian seized her by the arm and hauled her inside, up the stairs to her room, shaming her in front of her smirking bunkmates who loitered in their doorways, ever hungry for a scene.
He will know, Julian said, slamming her door shut. He will know because I will tell him, do you understand? I will have to tell him! he exploded.
She cowered in shock, and he turned contrite immediately. Luce, please, you have to listen, he begged her. He’s not going to buy you out, not if you keep talking the way you do, and not if you disobey him! Why can’t you understand?
Lucy shrank away, sat on the edge of the bed. It couldn’t be true. It just couldn’t be. She drew her knees together, recalling the last Service, the blood whirling down the drain after. She’d been called up six times so far, and every time she wanted to die, but what kept her going was that promise of moving into Theo’s home forever: the crackling fire, the polished curved stairs, the fields swaying under the starry sky. And now she might never have that? The servs he didn’t buy out were drubs, losers. They ran errands, worked shit jobs, Served without any break. They were excited when they got an extra ten bucks to spend on dope.
Now you’re hearing me, he said, coming to her side and sinking down. I’m sorry, Luce, but you can’t go against him. I don’t even know why you’d want to. I mean, do you really want to stay here?
Of course she didn’t want to stay in this dump, a ramshackle house in Dorchester with six bedrooms, each one occupied by bitching, strung-out servs. There was no restriction on how many to a room, male or female. She had her own room because Julian set it up that way, but her bed was a plank with a thin foam mattress, and Joe Brynn, who creeped her out and seemed to hate her, said she wasn’t some princess to have it replaced. Freezing air seeped through the ancient windows, so she had to keep a blanket bunched along the sill. At night, the radiators hissed and banged, and there was always the noise of weeping from somewhere in the house.
She recalled the painted floors of her rental in Charlestown, the snug double-paned windows framed in shining white plastic. Right now, she’d give anything to be with her merry people housemates listening to their people gossip and people problems.
How could you? she turned on him. How could you even let me get tagged?
Whoa—
I hate you! she screamed, shoving him away so hard he actually stumbled off the edge of the bed, his knee cracking on the wood floor. I want to go back! I want to go back to where I was before!
He didn’t strike her or shout. He turned eerily calm. He stared at her with a weird detachment. She wanted to scoop up her words and shove them back into the dark pit where they’d come from, but it was too late.
I really thought you belonged, he said.
Those words were the biggest punch in the gut. I do belong, she tried to say, but he was already gone.
SHE SPENT THE FOLLOWING months trying so hard to make things right again. But it was like the argument had torn right through them, left a wound that couldn’t heal. The time they spent together dwindled, and days would go by before he’d return a message. Joe Brynn dumped a second bed in her room, and another serv moved in. She didn’t make a peep about it, but her compliance made no difference. Theo grew increasingly aloof, and the rest of the family sensed her fall from grace and distanced themselves, so there were no more hugs and pity fests for the Services she had to endure.
Maybe it was the pain of her increasing isolation, or maybe it was just inevitable, but when she sat cross-legged on the living room floor obediently listening to Theo’s lectures, she found herself thinking there was no way they’d ever been Nafikh. Servs were just what they seemed, beings made by indifferent creators, with no meaning to their existence other than to try and stay alive as long as possible. He’d been too long out of Service, she thought bitterly. He’d forgotten what it was like to grovel under a Nafikh’s hungry stare, powerless as an insect.
She kept her her mouth shut, of course. But it was too late. They all knew she was the jagged bit from another puzzle, no place for her here.
And then, one evening when she was supposed to be picked up for dinner, Julian called. He informed her she wouldn’t be going out to Ayer anymore. She’d be moved from the bunk, though, to one of the apartments. She had him to thank for this, he emphasized, because he was the one who’d convinced Theo to keep that promise. She’d work for Theo, and she was responsible for the rent. If she failed to meet her obligations, well, then.
And that was that.
They no longer cared what she did so long as she did her job. When she finally understood that, it was early spring, and yes, she appreciated the change of season in a whole new way. She got on the ferry to Hull. Snow was melting everywhere, birds sang. She walked the mile to Eva’s house and the sea wind whipped her hair about her face. She hadn’t been back in forever, and she hadn’t called first. Eva wasn’t home and the door was locked. Lucy went around back, noting the broken fence and wondering how come Sean hadn’t fixed it. She dug the key out from under the stone cat and let herself in the kitchen door. She went straight upstairs to her room and curled up on her purple bed and passed out.
When she woke, she was under a blanket and there was the smell of meatloaf and the tinny noise of Eva’s afternoon radio show. Her door was ajar, the way she’d always liked it. She lay there a long time. Eventually, she heard footsteps on the stairs. Eva pushed the door open and stood there with a wounded, wary expression.
Where have you been all these months? she asked. Sean even went to your old place. No one had heard from you. We thought you were dead.
Lucy said, I’m sorry.
Eva sighed. She came over and sat on the bed, patting Lucy’s hip.
I knew that bozo was no good the first time I laid eyes on him, she said. What did he do to you? Did he do that?
Lucy’s hand crept to the healed cut on her jaw, sure to scar. A sentry up in Montreal had smacked her around during the last Service of the season, when she tried to duck out early.
I fell, she said.
Eva didn’t buy it. Striking a woman was the worst possible crime, in her book. She always said about Lucy’s da, Frank: At least he never raised a hand.
I’ll send Sean after that lowlife, she threatened, show him what’s what!
Don’t do anything, Lucy begged. Please, just leave it alone.
Why did you stay with him so long?
I couldn’t help it. It was—it was kind of like a cult, I guess.
A cult! Eva cried.
Nothing to do with the devil, Lucy scrambled. It wasn’t really a cult. It was just like a close group, you know. They said I couldn’t see my family. I just wanted to belong.
You belong here, Lucy Belle Hennessey, Eva stated. A cult. Of all things! I sure hope you’re finished with him now.
I am, Lucy lied, and it came easy, because it was all she’d done for years, tell lies. She added, because Eva looked dubious and worried, Really. I swear I am.
Well, get washed up for dinner, Eva said. I told Phyllis to come, and Sean, too.
You did not!
A cult, Eva marveled on her way out.
It wasn’t a cult! Lucy called after her, uselessly.
To this day, they still refer to it. That time you were in the cult, they say. It’s lucky you got out of the cult, they reminisce. You realize not many are able to get out of that kind of thing.
Yes, she might say. Do I ever realize that. And how.
II
SNOW. MORE SNOW. THE coldest winter in ages. Then the freezing rain comes. Ice crackles all night against the windows, driven by a waili
ng wind. In the morning, a crystalline silence falls. The trees shimmer and glint, studded with icicle points. The world comes to a stop. Businesses shut down, hampered by collapsed electric and telephone wires, stalled busses, employees too nervous to venture forth. Schools close. Children hurtle down the empty streets, their sleds spinning out from beneath them. Flecks of ice continue to swirl out of the dark abyss of the universe above, and the ice settles in deeper, crackling.
It’s so wickedly cold that more Nafikh than ever pour into the world. They need twenty-four-hour entertainment; They don’t sleep, They just keep going and going. Typically, the Gate schedules driving tours to fill up daytime hours, usually to some secluded part of the Maine coast where They like to dip Their hands in the frigid ocean, or else a snowy expanse in the countryside. Last season, pictures went around of figures They built out of snow and ice, bizarre, twisted shapes, like stalagmites on acid. Everyone went nuts speculating on what they represented: Was it the home world? Was it what They actually look like? Who the fuck knew.
Montreal runs low on servs, and Lucy gets packed into a van along with about fifteen others, all Boston can spare. It’s always a hellish trip to Canada, seeing as they have to cross over illegally on foot, passports being hard to procure for servs. The grueling journey’s followed by back-to-backs with a cliquey bunch who fancy themselves on a higher rung in the serv world, given how many more Nafikh visit Quebec, suicidal snobbiness that Lucy finds hilarious. Their Boston group is reduced by two during the Services, so Lucy claims the back seat for herself on the way home. She calls Eva. She’s been on assignment in Montreal, she explains. “Lucy went to Montreal!” Eva brags to Phyllis, who visits every evening for a glass of sherry. Phyllis hollers in the background, “You go, girl!”
Lucy can’t help feeling glad to make Eva proud, even if it’s all a crock.
The bus rolls into Boston at about six a.m., stops at three different bunks. Lucy gets off at the last, which is a few blocks from the Lechmere stop on the Green Line. She’ll have to transfer, so she’s looking at a good forty minutes before she’s home, but it’s the best she’ll get. The other servs are too thrashed to notice she’s walking off down the street; they can’t be bothered to ask where she’s going, where does she live. As for the sentry driving the bus, she could fall down a drain for all he cares. She rides the line with early-morning commuters, zombies in scrubs, a few drunks, suits bent over their smartphones. When she finally emerges from the T at Porter Square, the sunlight slivers into her eyes, makes her sneeze. People look as she goes by, but she’s used to it and her whole demeanor communicates, Don’t fuck with me. She’s got a fat lip, ripped stockings, and a slight limp from a Nafikh kick to the thigh. Her cheeks are still dusted with glitter, her eyes smeared with kohl. One lady even goes so far as to stop her and ask with grave concern whether there’s anything she can do to help.
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