Skinner Luce

by Patricia Ward

  TIME PASSES, THE CLOCK ticks. The night deepens, settling all around her now quiet, wide-awake, rigid body laid out on her bed like a corpse. She doesn’t check the clock; it’s a rule she has. If she sees the time, realizes how little is left, then for sure she won’t sleep. And she needs her rest, because she’s got no choice but to get up, go to work, come back. Go through the motions. Whoever’s keeping an eye on her for Theo, they’ll report all is normal.

  She grips the knife close to her chest, staring into the dark with burning eyes. She lets her mind slip away to worn, pleasant fantasies of making quota and moving on, taking night classes, maybe paralegal, maybe something more ambitious. She makes money, moves somewhere hip like the North End. She fixes up the house for Eva’s twilight years. She repairs Lucy Belle, chugs around the bay on weekends. At dusk, she stands in the cold wet sand under the dock and digs in with her toes, seeking the sharp edges of clams.

  MORNING. SHE’S DOZED MAYBE one hour, if that. Her skin feels papery, loose, everything underneath a soggy blob held upright by sheer will. She stands in the lobby for several minutes, the metal blade tucked in her skirt waistband, heating up her skin.

  “What’s wrong wi’ joo?” the super criticizes. He’s got the vacuum out, preparing to do the narrow strip of worn carpet running the length of the hall. “I don’t want no more trouble with la policia, joo hear?”

  “There won’t be,” Lucy says flatly. She fixes her disarming gaze on him. She knows what she looks like: a total lunatic, huge pale eyes ringed with dark, her body rigid with tension. He backs off, grumbling.

  She peers up and down the street through the grimy windows, but Bedrosian’s nowhere to be seen. Her plan of just keeping up her routine is completely absurd, but she’s too exhausted to contemplate a change. She tried to think of alternatives, but there are none, short of just getting back in bed and staying there. And that won’t pay the rent.

  Once outside, she still can’t see Bedrosian’s boat of a car. The absence of him sets her more on edge. Maybe he went ahead last night after all. Maybe he went back to Ayer, or to some serv contact, asked more questions. He could be lying dead in an alley somewhere, and here she is going down the sidewalk, the easiest target on the face of the planet. She finds herself hurrying, almost running. By the time she gets to work, she’s envisioned so many scenarios in which she’s fighting for her life with her pathetic little weapon that she’s in a sweat, dumbfounded to be alive.

  She pauses just outside the office to change out of her Kamiks into her pumps.

  “My Lord,” Mrs. M. exclaims. “Are you all right?”

  There is the soft rustle of heads turning. Lucy thought she’d done a passable job with makeup and hair: evidently not.

  “Dear, you look unwell,” Mrs. M. says in a hushed voice. “Do you have a fever?”

  “Food poisoning,” Lucy confesses. “I’m O.K. now. I promise.”

  Mrs. M. doesn’t buy this. She follows her down the hallway. “You can take the morning off, you know. We aren’t ogres here.”

  Lucy fixes her face in a smile. “I’m O.K., really.”

  There’s nothing Mrs. M. can do but retreat. Lucy’s back in the storeroom for the day, and she feels like a dog guarding her close little territory, the humming copy machine, the shredder waiting with its malevolent row of curved teeth. She sets about her work, ignoring everyone’s anxious stares. They’re overreacting. How she looks today is nothing compared to how she’s showed up at other jobs. There are no bruises or lacerations. She just looks like she didn’t sleep, and that’s no big surprise, because she barely did.

  When she goes to the bathroom, she rips her panty hose with a broken fingernail. She’s extra careful, but pulling them back up causes a run to flee down her leg. She doesn’t have an extra pair. The dilemma leaves her teary-eyed. She knows it’s just because she’s so shattered, but she can’t help feeling self-conscious, walking fast to get back to her haven unseen. Another hour passes. And another.

  “Hey, you.” Marcie leans in the doorway, cradling a steaming cup in her hands. “How’s it going?”

  “O.K.” Lucy manages a smile.

  “Where are we going for lunch?”

  In the agonizing haze of her morning routine, Lucy forgot to pack a sandwich. But nor can she deal with chitchat today. She can barely function in her solitude, let alone in a bright café surrounded by people, with this happy person prying for information, sharing bits and pieces of her own unbearably easy life.

  “I need to work through. Which reminds me—I forgot to ask Mrs. M. if I could.”

  “O.K.” Marcie hesitates, disappointed. “See you later,” she says awkwardly, and heads off down the hallway.

  Her departure causes a tug of pain, as if something inside Lucy is unraveling, getting dragged away along the carpet behind her new friend. She should have just said yes. Stuck to the pattern, gone along. You have to act normal, she berates herself, trying to tamp down the desperate spiral of her thoughts. Bedrosian keeps appearing in her mind’s eye. Here, in the small room tucked high up and far away in an office building, their conversation feels smothered now, muffled and unreal. Her mind deflects, goes running in the opposite direction.

  He’s been going around asking questions, and Theo’s already gotten wind. There’s no way he hasn’t. She’s deluding herself, thinking if she just goes to work, acts normal, she’ll be off the hook. The papers slip from her trembling hands. She bends to collect them, her fingertips brushing the carpet, gathering static. She sits very still, squaring off the paper, trying to get a hold of herself. Beyond the humming sound of the copy machine, there’s the faint tinkle of laughter from one of the cubicles. Ringing phones. Prim hurried footsteps going this way and that, muffled by carpeting. What’s happening with Theo, with Bedrosian, it’s all just so far away from this. Her life is like this explosion and she’s a faint little dot now on this side, now on the other. There’s no thread, no connection.

  Her phone rings, and she digs frantically through her bag to answer. She shouldn’t have it on at work. Eva’s number shows on the screen. Shit, she thinks, switching off the ringer. She turns her mind to her tasks, wishing she could be put back in the file room where the temperature is lower. The sooner she gets this stuff done, the sooner she can get out of here. Her fingers fumble and shake, and she can feel the pink heat in her cheeks, the way she gets when she’s at the end of her rope. Maybe take the lunch break after all, but sleep somewhere. She pictures herself curled up in a stairwell somewhere in the building.

  Her phone hums inside her bag, alerting her to another call. Eva again. Frowning, Lucy backs up to the far side of the storeroom, tucks herself between the shelf and the window. She keeps her eyes away from the dizzying drop to the street, stares out at across the harbor, frothing whitecaps on the slate-gray water that melds with the colorless winter sky. She answers the call, hisses, “Ma, what is it? I’m at work!”

  It’s Sean who replies. “Luce, where the hell have you been?”

  “I’m at work like I said! What are you doing calling?”

  “Are you in some kind of trouble, Luce?”

  “What do you mean?”

  She hears Eva yammering on in the background. “No, we have to tell her!” he snaps in response. “Luce, a cop came by here this morning, asking all sorts of questions. He said you’re a possible witness to something, and he thinks you’re protecting some bad guys. That’s what he said, ‘bad guys,’ like Aunt Eva’s a two-year-old!”

  Lucy’s gasping for air. She leans against the window, trembling. “Put her on.”

  “No. You tell me, and you tell me now!”

  “I need to know what he asked!”

  “Why?” he bellows. “What the fuck, Lucy! What did you do? Is this something to do with you-know-what?”

  For a second, she has no clue what he’s talking about. Then it comes to her: his escort service theory. She hears Eva demand what he means by you-know-what. Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod. She
pushes her fist against her teeth, biting hard. Deep breath.

  “This guy’s a freak, O.K.?” she blurts out. “I didn’t do anything! He’s been following me around. I think he’s some kind of maniac.”

  “Oh yeah? And how did you meet him?”

  “At a bar,” she improvises.

  “Great. That’s just great, Luce. A maniac you picked up in a bar. It’s a good one, I’ll hand you that, because it’s so damn believable!”

  There is a rustling sound, the muffled sounds of them arguing. Eva comes on the line. “Baby, don’t pay attention to him. You know he’s just worried. Are you all right?”

  Lucy closes her eyes. Breathe. “I’m fine. I’m sorry he bugged you. Are you O.K.?”

  “Oh, he was nothing but polite. He was very professional”—Lucy pictures her turning to Sean as she says the word with extra force—“and he did not say you did something wrong. Sean, I told you this already! Honey, if you’re covering up for someone because you’re scared, then you need to just do the right thing, all right? The police can protect you!”

  Lucy’s faint at the image of Bedrosian seated at the kitchen table, Eva fussing over the antique porcelain cups she pulls out for visitors. She no doubt gave him her special almond cookies, too. She’s got an almost worshipful regard for the police, maybe because they’d periodically scoop Seamus Hennessey off the floor of a bar and lock him up, which meant for at least one night, Eva, Lucy, and Sean could all relax and watch a movie, spill popcorn on the furniture, and laugh as loudly as they cared.

  “Ma, what did he ask?”

  “Oh, he wanted to know about you, and people you knew in the past. I mean, there isn’t much from the present, is there,” she forces a laugh.

  The memory pops right up, inducing panic: Julian’s visit, when she was still in college. There is a picture of them among her stuff in the attic, standing on the dock with their arms around each other, two grinning brutes, poor Eva compliantly snapping photos. Maybe Eva’s forgotten.

  “I said you’ve always been a bit of a loner. No friends to speak of, except for that boyfriend.”

  Lucy’s insides lurch.

  “Julian whatever-his-name-was. He was a rotten piece of work, I told him.”

  Lucy swallows, her mouth dry as dust. “What else did you say?”

  “I said if he’s involved, it’ll be about the cult, and you’re not in it anymore. Is he involved?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I said you’re a good girl, you’re a hard worker, I told him. Now you do the right thing and assist the police. They’re here to help us, and we have to help them.”

  “O.K., Ma.”

  “Don’t ‘O.K.’ me!”

  “No, I will, I promise. This is all a big misunderstanding. Don’t worry about it. He won’t be coming back again.”

  There is a rustling sound as the phone exchanges hands, then Sean says, “Luce, are you sure you’re not in trouble?”

  “Yes,” she says. “It’s fine. I promise. I have to get back to work.”

  She hangs up, presses her hands to the window, her legs shaking. Breathe. Looks back over her shoulder, turning in place. The solid pile of paper sits on a low table, her stool next to it, the shredder waiting with its bright green light. She stares uncomprehendingly at these objects, clueless as to how she’ll pull through the next—she lifts her phone, checks the time—five and a half hours.

  A ferry chugs towards the harbor. She wonders if Bedrosian’s on it, or if he drove. She stares at the boat, aghast. He might come here.

  “You really should go,” Mrs. M. chastens her from the doorway. Lucy turns around, blinking.

  “I’ve already called the agency,” Mrs. M. warns. “You shouldn’t come in when you’re so sick. There’s a flu going around.”

  “I don’t have the flu, I promise.”

  “They’re sending someone right now.”

  “But I need this job!” Lucy blurts, then feels herself blushing hotly.

  Mrs. M. stiffens, looks up and down the hallway. “How about you leave a message early tomorrow, Lucy,” she concedes. “If I haven’t heard from you, I’ll send for someone else.”

  “O.K.,” Lucy agrees, surprised and grateful for this concession. “I appreciate that so much. I’ll call, I promise.”

  “All right, then. Get along. Get some rest.”

  She can feel everyone staring as she leaves. She doesn’t blame them. When she hasn’t slept, her pale skin goes white and her blue eyes get huge, shadowed by dark rings. Crack-house Casper, that’s what Sean used to tease, and she’d punch him till he took it back. “Are you all right?” Marcie asks, popping out from her cubicle and falling into step. She gives Lucy’s back a quick, circular rub, as if to boost her into a better mood. It takes monumental effort not to shrink away from the contact. Even through her shirt, her abnormal body temp might be sensed. Lucy manages to edge away. “I’m fine, I thought I was doing better this morning. My mother keeps calling,” she adds with a roll of the eyes, a moment of genius to explain away the ringing phone.

  “Yours is like that, too?” Marcie laughs merrily. “I wonder if we’ll be the same.”

  “Yeah,” Lucy smiles. “Probably.”

  “Do you want kids?” she asks with her disarming enthusiasm.

  “Sure.”

  “Do you have a boyfriend?”

  Jesus fucking Christ. “I did. He died.”

  “Oh—” Marcie claps her hand over her mouth, eyes wide with dismay.

  The elevator dings its arrival. “It’s O.K. But I don’t really want to talk about it.”

  Marcie complies, her expression flooded with empathy. Lucy steps into the elevator. The doors thump shut, closing her off from Marcie’s concern. The ride down in the roomy, quiet space tightens the knot in her stomach, balled-up sick fear of the outside and what if Bedrosian’s there, waiting. Or tracking Julian down, right now. When the doors whoosh open on the ground floor, two elegant men in the midst of a soft, chuckling conversation step inside, carrying their suit jackets draped over their forearms. “Hey,” one of them says, throwing out his hand to block the door’s automatic return. Lucy starts, mumbles apology, and hurries out onto the marble floor. She finds herself yearning for the close, hot little storeroom with its laden shelves and soothing machine noises. She could go back up, she fantasizes, sneak in and hide there.

  In the lobby, the concierge watches her discreetly as she changes into her Kamiks. All is silent at this time of morning, the atrium tables unoccupied but for a few lone coffee drinkers deeply engrossed with their laptops. “Short day?” the concierge inquires. Lucy nods. She turns away and trudges towards the main doors, her boots squeaking faintly on the shining floors.

  SHE WALKS IN AN aimless daze, unable to conceive of going back to the apartment so early in the day, just sitting there for hours, doing nothing. She comes to a crosswalk, waits for the green signal. People shoulder past since there’s no traffic, and she joins them, skidding through the narrow, slushy passages formed in the heaped snow on either side of the street. She edges close to a wall, pauses over her phone to check if Nafikh are anywhere in the neighborhood. Her nose is running from the cold, and she sniffles, wiping the snot on her mitten. The first Tweets she reads provoke anxiety: there are two Nafikh heading east from Beacon. She turns in place, scanning the streets. No scoops yet, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t coming. Trying to make Park or Downtown Crossing at this point is a big risk, which means heading all the way back to the Aquarium stop.

  For a moment, she stays put, huddled against the icy wind blasts. She could just give in, wait here till it happens. Scooped, carried along on the wave, mindless robot getting told what to do with no decisions to make. It would be so easy, too, to just trip at the right moment, bumble into one of Them. End it all.

  She comes back to reality as she scans another feed, this one spitting out a new message every few seconds. There’s a first-timer in town, nicknamed Rambo because He looks lik
e Stallone. First-timers rarely stay out long, but Serving Them is the worst, They can’t control Themselves for shit. Lucy’s only been on a few of those Services, and they were hell. This one’s already racked up three dead servs and scores others injured: any scoop would be sending her that way for sure, no chance of getting assigned to the more seasoned Nafikh having a stroll through town.

  Lucy desperately casts about for a safe haven. No malls or department stores—the Nafikh love escalators. No small shops, either, nowhere to hide. No jumping on a bus, as They might want to go for a ride, and it would be just her luck.

  There’s only one place to go, painful as it may be, and Lucy makes for it at a jog. It’s on a winding narrow side street paved with brick, of which there are so many downtown that she finds herself on the wrong one, has to stop to get her bearings. At last, she catches sight of the small bronze plaque nailed into the brick wall, the Nafikh symbols engraved above the house number, fanciful scrollwork to the unknowing observer.

  She climbs the three stairs and rings the buzzer, staring boldly up at the camera bolted to the overhang. After a moment, the door clicks open, and she ducks inside, at once enveloped in the soft, acrid odor of Faithful incense. It’s dark and cold, the hallway narrow, more like a tunnel. Someone steps into the doorway at the end, his tall form outlined in the light beyond. Though he’s in shadow, Lucy immediately recognizes the sloped shoulders, the thick, wavy hair.

  “You shouldn’t be here, Lucy,” Ernesto says. “What gives?”

  “I am lost,” she says with exaggerated meekness.

  “Shut up.”

  “Truly,” she begs. “I need guidance. I can’t take it anymore. I just need meaning.”

  A fractional smile. “Come on. But keep it down.”

  She hasn’t been here in forever. Once she fell out of grace, it felt too shameful to hang around Ernesto. He is Theo’s prized mole, who climbed the ranks in the Faithful Church till he actually was made a priest: Theo cracked open champagne that day, and they all howled laughing, partied all night. Not that Lucy was invited. Julian told her about it, to rub in everything she was missing.