She looked back at me. Her big green eyes were sad. “But we do.”
A blue bedroom, a boy’s bedroom, but with protests of sherbet colors and string lights. I saw my own purple sparkly hairbrush, forgotten here, on the dresser. I looked at it because I didn’t want to look at the closet door, partly ajar, where Suzanne’s sneakered foot poked out. As if it had just been tossed aside. I didn’t want to see what used to be Suzanne’s face staring past me through that crack in the door.
“I don’t want to be here.” The ancient scars inside throbbed with fresh pain. Far-away thunder growled, faint but threatening.
“Shhh. Hide.” She pulled me into the corner, where it was dim.
There was a raspy, low, hissing sound. A black vulture circled and perched on the headboard, looking around with quick hard eyes. It opened its wings wide and craned its head forward, toward the closet. We jumped back as a whoosh of air startled us, another vulture appearing close to us and perching on the dresser beside my hairbrush, hissing. There was a sickly tearing sound and a buzzing, and a cloud of flies formed around the crack in the closet door, a shadow filling the space.
“No. Not him,” I whispered. I didn’t know his name, couldn’t see him in the closet, but I knew it was him.
The muffled sound of Suzanne’s voice, thick and choked, somehow coming from inside that door. How...? “No. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean to go through with it. I don’t want this!”
The vultures hissed and flapped their wings, extending them wide, staring at the closet with ugly hunger.
Deep, helpless sobs from the closet. “Please no...please no!”
The vultures swooped at the door. An agonized cry, choked off as the vultures slithered like tar into the closet and the cloud of flies burst and dissipated, and the shadows melted. The door rocked on its hinges.
I hid my eyes in my hands. “Is that what happened to you, Suze? When you died?” Gods, I had tried so hard to erase the memory of her body from my mind. “Please, can we go?”
“We have,” she said. I looked up and saw that we were now in my teenage bedroom, its childish lavender turned goth with purple curtains and black sheets. There I was in my bed, face puffy with crying, flipping through the pages of some cheesy Wicca primer to distract myself but not really reading it.
“Why are you showing me all this?” I pulled on her hand. “I want to go. This is in the past. He’s not here anymore.”
“But he is.” She stared at me, her eyes intense. “He’s coming. You have to stop him. You can’t let him take it.”
There was a wet stain smeared across her shirt now, over her heart, dark and ugly. It steamed around the edges.
“Stop him? How am I supposed to do that?” If I could have done that, my life would have gone very differently.
“Stop him,” she repeated. “Find the others. Go through metamorphosis.” She was fading. I just barely caught her last few words.
“Suze!” I shouted. “Suzie, don’t go! I miss you, please don’t go yet!”
Sleep swallowed me again.
CHAPTER TWO
I woke with dread as thick as the stuffy heat in the air around me. Still, waking was a relief, realizing I’d just had a bad dream. I changed into a worn pair of cargo pants and a fresh tank top, freeing my long black hair from its ponytail to brush it and then tying it up again. It was still early, but the day already promised to be steamy. I’d just gotten my tent and sleeping bag strapped back into place and was mid-stretch when the roof door opened. I tensed, though it’s not like there was anywhere to run.
I sort of recognized the middle-aged woman who walked out onto the roof, looking startled to see me there. I glanced down and saw that my baggage was blocked from her view by the vent, looked back at her and managed what I hoped was a smile and not a grimace. “Morning!” My voice sounded fake-chipper to my ears. I stretched up again and then stepped back into a Warrior Two yoga pose, as if that’s what I’d been doing all along. Roof yoga. Sure. Because that’s a thing, right?
Neighbor Lady, fortunately, did not call me on it. “Morning,” she replied, losing interest in me and going to the clothesline to retrieve her towels. I watched her out of the corner of my eye as I dragged out the very few yoga-ish poses I could remember until she left. I sighed in relief, scooping up my bags and heading for the stairs.
No one saw me leave the building, another relief. Out on the street, I had to figure out some kind of plan.
The first order of business was to line up a place to sleep. Night always comes quicker than you’d think, and I knew I’d have no peace of mind until I knew where I could stay next. I hitched my pack straps higher up on my shoulders and walked the few blocks to the nearest library.
There was one working computer that day, and I waited an impatient half hour for some jackass dude with a sour face to finish reading his crazy right-wing propaganda websites so I could use it. The librarian was shooting me suspicious looks, like I was going to unroll my sleeping bag and set up camp on the floor in front of her desk or something. I paid it forward by sitting one table away from the guy on the computer and staring at him until he gave up and huffed away, making sure to look me over with plenty of contempt for the dangerous hippie pinko I surely looked like to him.
I didn’t have a cell phone, not even a cheap prepaid one, so email and online messaging was my best way to track down my friends. At least, it was when I could get to a computer, but at least most public libraries are equipped these days. I scrolled through my mail. Not much junk, compared to other people. It’s the upside of not having credit or debit cards with which to buy stuff. But I was on a few discussion lists, and I hadn’t logged in for a week or more, so there was still a bunch of mail to weed through.
There was an email from Amie with a time stamp sometime in the wee hours. I deleted it unread. Fuck her--I didn’t need to hear her pathetic excuses or sob stories.
I clicked through a few discussion threads as I thought about who I could ask for crash space and who was likely to see my message and reply the quickest. The names that popped into my head, though, were friends who were in other states. I had this sudden, nagging sense that I was supposed to get out of New Orleans. Normally I listen to those intuitions. They’ve gotten pretty sharp since the accident, and things tend to work out better when I pay attention to them. But I was short on sleep and last night’s events had left me cranky and contrary, and I kept telling myself that there was no way I was going to get out-of-state arrangements made and deal with traveling all in one day. I’d still need a place for a day or two at least. Plus, I liked New Orleans. I fit in well with the crustpunks here, and there was a party-at-the-end-of-the-world feel to our existence that made it easier to deal with the danger and the poverty and the lack of stability. I wasn’t sure I was ready to leave.
Then the words of the email I was looking at came into a sharp enough focus to pierce through the burble of my thoughts. It was from a list I’d joined...I don’t even remember when or how. It was an email group list for Burning Man devotees in the mid-Atlantic. I ignored most of the posts to the list. I mean, I found burners to be pretty simpatico people, but most of them still had regular jobs and homes and roots in their communities, and talked about local-ish things that required money, cars, or other stuff I didn’t have.
The subject line of the email said, “Re-selling ticket for MetamorphosUS”. That’s what had lodged in my brain. I remembered the dream from last night. Go through metamorphosis. Or was it go to MetamorphosUS? My gaze drifted down the screen. The festival was coming up quick, judging by the last-minute nature of the email. The ticket cost fifty dollars and the seller was offering to meet the buyer at the gate to take cash for it.
I felt such a huge electric surge of certainty that I needed to buy this ticket that it knocked the wind out of me. I clicked “reply” and typed before I was aware of doing it. Still available? I
’d love to take it off your hands and I have cash. I sent it before I could think better of it.
While I waited--realizing I had no idea how soon I’d get a reply, if I did at all--I opened a new tab and did a search for MetamorphosUS. I was familiar with the name of the event and thought it was probably like a burner weekend I’d attended in the time between my layoff and the accident, when I was living off severance and doing some crazy fun things in a fuzzy attempt to find myself or whatever I told myself I was doing that was more important than looking for another job.
Sure enough, it was a five-day event over the holiday weekend--this coming weekend, I realized when I checked the date--at a farm somewhere in Buttfuck, PA, a private property that would be located far from prying eyes or bitchy neighbors. All tent camping, of course, with a bare minimum of amenities, but plenty of art, music, partying, and community spirit.
I considered this stupid impulsive plan of mine and realized that it wasn’t actually as stupid as all that. I remembered that at the other festival I’d attended that one time, it had felt really safe. Everyone looked out for each other and shared things and helped one another. I’d be able to pitch my tent, stash my stuff, and walk around unencumbered without having to worry about my things. Fifty bucks was not a bad price for four nights of peace and safety and therefore good sleep; if I couldn’t find anyone to crash with here, I’d be outside somewhere anyway, or figuring out how to afford a grimy motel room. And the atmosphere would be fun, creative, welcoming. A nice recharge for the spirit. If I wanted to head back to NOLA afterward, there was no reason I couldn’t just return. Maybe my “intuition” was just a need to rest.
The biggest problem was getting that far north. I could ride the train pretty close, but I’d need a lift to the farm from there, and hitching would be difficult for a spot out in the boonies. But, one problem at a time. First I needed to know I had a ticket.
And, for that matter, that I could even afford it. Dammit. I rooted through my stuff for anyplace I might have stashed some money.
Forty bucks.
Shit.
I stared at the crumpled bills and my heart sank. I’d gotten excited there for a minute. I cursed myself and clicked back to my email to send another message to tell the guy selling the ticket to forget it. But he’d responded already from his phone, telling me that whenever I arrived, I could ask the gate folks to raise him on the radio and he’d meet me. Glad I can help someone come home! he wrote as a sign-off. (Burners all refer to their shared spaces as “home”. I remembered everyone at that other festival greeting me with “welcome home!” whether they knew me or not.)
Something about that sentence made my eyes well up with tears.
I thought about it for several minutes. In the end, experience won out. I needed to trust that gut feeling; it was too strong to ignore. Listen, I said in my head to whoever in the Universe might be paying attention, I’m taking a pretty big leap of faith here. If this is right, if I’m supposed to go to this, then help me get a few more bucks together, okay?
I posted to the list myself, asking if anyone could offer me a ride. I’m heading north on the train from New Orleans to Baltimore, I wrote with more confidence than I felt, remembering more or less the freight lines between the two.
Then there was nothing to do but wait. I ducked into the bathroom for a quick wash in the sink and a pits-and-bits cleanup with baby wipes in a stall. I wandered the stacks, enduring the librarian’s judgmental gaze, logging into my email now and then. Nothing so far. Finally I gave up and decided to come back later; as a peace offering, I donated the few books in my laundry bag. The librarian softened only a little as she thanked me, but it made me feel less like human debris at least.
Out on the street, the heat was rising, pressing in on everything like a thick damp quilt. I had a long walk ahead of me, and no time to waste.
Every inch of me was sticky by the time I got to Frenchman Street. Stray hairs were plastered to my cheeks and I was willing to bet I also had a mad scientist halo of frizz framing my face. Totally attractive. I was greeted by the welcoming sounds of the ragtime-funk fusion of a quintet of jazz musicians busking for the tourists. I knew all of them by name, but Daisy and Roux were drinking buddies of mine. Like most of the crusties (or Travellers, as some of them preferred to be called), they were a group of squatters and drifters without a permanent address, which is the main point over which I bonded with them.
They acknowledged me with smiles and chin lifts as I settled on a stoop nearby to listen to their set. I watched people on the street slow down, nod their heads in time, sometimes stop to listen, more rarely throw a dollar in Roux’s guitar case. I loved how the music filled the street and made an ordinary day feel like a party.
When they were finishing up, Roux came over to me and threw her arms around me in a sweaty bear hug that I returned, grateful for the human contact. “You coming to the jam session this week?” she asked as we sat back down on the step.
I shook my head. “Getting out of Dodge.” I gave her the quick rundown of last night’s adventures. Daisy joined us partway through, offering us some of the leftovers a friend had saved for her. I realized I was starving and took a couple slices of fried plantain and half a tortilla, which I dunked in congealed refried beans and shoveled in my mouth as I talked. Gross, I know. So sue me.
“Shit,” Daisy said as I finished. “That is completely fucked up.”
“Right?” I tucked my last bite of plantain into the bean-laden tortilla and told them about my plan to go to MetamorphosUS. “I just need to figure out a way to get a few more bucks together. I have stuff I could sell, but I don’t have all day to scope out a spot. Or maybe I do. I don’t know how quick I’ll need to hit the road if I can get a ride up in Baltimore.”
This is the difference between being friends with normal people and being friends with folks like these: normal people would tell me I’m crazy or stupid, try to talk me out of it, tell me to go to a homeless shelter or “just get a job” like it’s so easy. These guys, though, they get it. Roux’s had her share of picking up and leaving on a complete whim, and Daisy’s Voudon bent has made her used to getting weird prompts to do seemingly-illogical things that turn out to be the right choice.
They swung into problem-solving mode. Daisy went to talk to Jerry, one of the guys in the quintet, who had a friend who had a car who might be able to take me to the freight yard. Roux offered me seven bucks--all she had on her--for the ukulele and my CD. There was some conferencing among the quintet and with a few other nearby buskers, plus a couple of phone calls Jerry made, to get me some information about the train timetables. The quintet agreed to let me hang with them for an hour or two and work their crowd to read tarot for cash. It was something I had gotten good at since the accident and did now and then to get by, but you had to be careful to pick a spot where you wouldn’t get chased off by cops or other buskers. Them sharing their spot was generous and would save me a lot of time.
Never in my life was I so charming. I flirted, bantered, did my best circus barker voice, wheedled. I only got a few takers, but it was enough; a little over two hours later, I had about thirty dollars more. Enough, just barely, to get me where I was going.
I gave my friends my laundry bag with the few odds and ends that were left in it and told them to take what they liked. Jerry told me where to meet his friend with the car. I hugged everyone hard and promised to get them word that I’d arrived safely, as soon as I had a way to do it.
I was really doing this.
I walked to a different library to check my email again, and another piece fell into place. A couple of people driving up to MetamorphosUS from Maryland had room in their car and were willing to stop off in Baltimore to get me tomorrow on their way up. Thinking that I was taking a passenger train, they suggested a coffee shop in Penn Station for a meet-up spot, and gave me their phone number. I wrote back to accept, and hoped th
ey wouldn’t notice that I hadn’t included a number of my own.
Then I had just enough time to hit the supermarket before meeting Jerry’s friend. I bought a few big bottles of water, a box of off-brand granola bars, a jar of generic peanut butter, and a few apples. It was enough to keep me from starving and left me with a few bucks either to contribute toward gas or to have something left for whatever came after the weekend. I’d learned it wasn’t worth thinking that far ahead, the way I lived. Worry about it when the weekend was coming to an end. For now, I was set.
It was time to go.
We’d passed the hottest part of the day by the time the freight yard came into view, but it was still oppressive. Jerry’s friend, Ronnie, didn’t have working AC in his old beater of a car, so we had all the windows down to delude ourselves that it’d help. But the car ran, and Ronnie was saving me a lot of hardship by hauling my butt out there, so I wasn’t going to complain.
Ronnie was older than me, with gray-threaded hair swept back from a face weathered by hard living, a couple of thick rings in his ears, and grimy fingernails. He was a chatty dude who took a kind of avuncular shine to me right away, asking me if I was sure this was a good plan.
“I have no idea,” I admitted. “It’s probably really stupid. But I’ve been doing stupid things that turned out okay for a couple of years now, so I’m just going to hope that my luck holds. Besides,” I added, “this feels like something I need to do.”
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and squinted as if thinking hard. “I used to hop the rails,” he said. “Pretty rough sometimes. You done it before?”
“A few times. Rough maybe, but it gets me where I’m going.”
“Just be careful, yeah?”
“You got it.” I was touched by his concern, if not surprised. In fact, I felt one of those little jolts of realizing just how weird my life had gotten; it hadn’t occurred to me even once to be suspicious of Ronnie or afraid to ride alone with him. I’d never met him before, and here I was driving out to the freight yard with no way for anyone to know what happened to me after that. And yet, I knew on a gut level that he was all right. It was just the way that my world worked now, this loose network of people who helped each other out and watched each other’s backs. Someone I knew had vouched for Ronnie, and vouched for me to him, so we just trusted each other, and he saw me as one of his people, someone to look out for.
MetamorphosUS: Book 1 of the Mythfit Witch Mysteries Page 2