Silk

by Kiernan, Caitlin R.

  Theo stooped down in front of her, Are you okay, Dar? Do you need anything? and Daria had shaken her head and smiled her goofy drunk smile, and fresh tears had streamed down her face.

  “It’s gonna be all right,” Theo had said and hugged her, sat down on the mattress; Theo without her opera gloves now, a bottle of Sterling in one hand. Daria lay her head on Theo’s shoulder: that was what she wanted to believe, that somehow it would all be right again, that very soon she would pass out, slip away, barfing up her guts in the toilet down the hall while Theo held her head and whispered soothing words, and when she came to she’d be in her own bed and all this just a vivid nightmare that would fade before she could even remember the details.

  “Niki and Spyder are here,” Theo said. “You want to talk to them?”

  “Yeah,” she’d said, wiping her snotty nose on her shirtsleeve, “Sure,” and Theo was gone, swallowed by the press of bodies and back in a minute or two, towing Niki through the crowd, Spyder still trailing behind. Niki kneeled in front of Daria, weepy Buddha-Dar, and said she was sorry, was there anything she could do? Spyder looked at the floor or her feet.

  “Not unless you can make me wake up, girl’o,” Daria said, and Niki had said, “I would, Dar. I would if I could.”

  “Hey there, Spyder,” and Spyder had glanced down at her, shrugged her shoulders and grunted something for an answer.

  “This is good,” Niki said. “This party, I mean. Keep it all out in the open, you know? Clean it all out.”

  Daria only nodded and stared up at Spyder.

  “Guess we’ve both had a pretty shitty month, huh, Spyder?” and Spyder’s eyes narrowed, drifted around to meet her own. And Daria had seen the sharp glint there, sapphire flash of anger, had known she was too drunk to be talking, that she’d done something wrong.

  “I’m sorry,” she’d said quickly. “I’m really goddamned shit-faced, Spyder, so just pretend I never said that, okay? I’m sorry.”

  And Niki took her hands, and Daria flinched, hands so cold, freezing; of course, it was only because they’d just come in, but she’d looked down and Niki’s hands were too white, Spyder-pale and livid welts across their backs, crisscross of raised pink flesh, like fresh burns or keloid scars.

  “Christ,” she said, “what happened to your hands, Niki?” but Niki was already pulling them away, tucking them inside the pockets of her army jacket. “Oh, that’s nothing. I had an accident in the kitchen.”

  “Jesus,” Theo said, so Daria knew she’d seen the marks, too. “Have you been to a doctor?” and Niki had shaken her head. “No,” she said, “It’s really not that bad at all.”

  Someone changed CDs and there’d been a few seconds’ worth of relative quiet, Daria looking at the bulges in Niki’s pockets where her hands were hiding, aware that Spyder was still watching her, that her apology hadn’t been accepted. And then the room filled with the sudden whine of bagpipes before thumping bass again, subwoofer throb, House of Pain, and the crowd began to jump up and down in unison, unreal trampoline dance, and she thought she’d felt the floor sway beneath them.

  “I just miss him, you know? I just miss him,” Daria said, bringing it back to herself, safer territory no matter how much it hurt. “It’s such a fucking waste.”

  “Yeah,” Niki said, and she put an arm around Spyder’s legs, giving Daria another glimpse of her hand.

  “I don’t want to be angry at him,” she said and took another drink from the wine bottle. “I don’t want to be angry at him for being such a selfish fucking prick…”

  “What do you mean?” Spyder asked, talking loud over the stereo and the pounding feet. “What do you mean, he was selfish?” and Daria looked back up at her, the anger still in Spyder’s eyes, and “I mean it was a goddamn stupid thing, Spyder. That’s what I mean. Never mind his friends, you know? Never mind me. He was a fucking genius, a goddamn fucking genius, and he pissed it away.”

  “It was his life,” Spyder said. “He could do with it whatever he wanted.”

  “Bullshit!” slinging the word at Spyder like a brick, had known that Spyder was baiting her, no idea why, but head clear enough to see she was. Just not clear enough to keep her own mouth shut. “He had no fucking right to do that to himself, so don’t give me that shit, Spyder. No one has a right to destroy themselves by shooting that crap into their body.”

  “You don’t seem to mind pouring that shit into yours….” and Spyder had pointed at the half-empty wine bottle; Daria just stared at her, speechless, and a new wave had risen up before her, towering black water rising, rising, and the filthy foam whitecap up there somewhere.

  “Spyder…” Niki had said, sounding like maybe she’d been afraid of this all along and trying to smile, holding tighter to Spyder’s legs.

  “I’m sorry,” Spyder said. “It just sounds kind of hypocritical to me.”

  And Daria had tried to stand up then, the floor tilting beneath her, the wall behind the only solid thing, and “Goddamn you,” she said, “God-fucking-damn you, Spyder. You don’t even know what the hell you’re talking about,” and Theo’s hands were trying to pull her back down onto the mattress.

  “Whatever you say, Daria.” And Spyder half-turned away from her and watched the dancing crowd of mourners.

  “She really didn’t mean it that way, Dar,” Niki had said, but Daria had braced herself against the wall, enough support, and she swung a hard punch that missed its mark and smacked Spyder in the throat.

  Spyder made a startled choking, coughing sound and stumbled backwards; bumped into the dancers and one of them pushed her, mosh pit reciprocation, and so she’d tumbled towards Daria, tripped by Niki’s embrace and the corner of the mattress. Sprawled into Daria’s arms and they’d both gone down, furious tangle of arms and legs, kicking boots, Daria hitting Spyder in the face over and over, Spyder’s blood on pale knuckles and the dirty wall. And Theo and Niki trying to pull them apart, catching stray kicks and blows for their trouble. Some of the dancers had stopped to watch, had formed a tight arena of flesh around Keith’s bed.

  Daria’s face, lip busted and sneering, teeth stained red with her blood and Spyder’s, “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you,” from her mouth, and then Theo was hauling Daria off and the toe of Spyder’s right boot had slammed into her unprotected stomach. She gagged, wrestled free of Theo’s grip and vomited on the floor, pure liquid gout of alcohol and bile that spattered them all.

  “Christ,” Theo said, and Niki, leaning over Spyder now, shielding Spyder, had said only “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” again and again.

  “Just get her the hell out of here, Niki,” Theo said, her arms around Daria’s shoulders as she’d heaved again. “Or I’m gonna finish what Daria started myself.”

  “She didn’t mean it—” Niki began, but Theo interrupted her: “Now!” she said, and Niki had helped Spyder up off the mattress, stepped in the way when Spyder tried to kick Daria again and caught the boot herself.

  “Get her out of here, Niki!”

  And Spyder growling, spitting bloodpink foam, and she’d said, “I’m not done with you, bitch,” last word like tearing fabric, and Daria could only cramp and listen and stare into the spreading pool of her puke.

  “What the hell was that,” Theo said, and Daria shook her head, like she had no idea. The fury had already left her, left her scraped raw with a little stream of vomit from both her nostrils, her gut aching, throat and acid-burned sinuses on fire. When she could talk, “Make them all leave, Theo. Find Mort and make them all leave.” And Theo had obeyed, reluctant, but doing it anyway; Daria sat back against the wall again, stared out at the confused crowd through watering eyes. They were trying not to stare at her, most of them, a few already being herded out the door by Mort and Theo. Someone had turned off the music. And then she’d closed her eyes and waited to be alone.

  4.

  Half an hour later, or an hour, outside Keith’s building, locking the door and feeling like crap. Sick and drunk and bruised. Mort and Th
eo hadn’t wanted to leave her, had offered to give her a lift back over to Morris, demanded finally, but she’d said the walk would do her good, that the air would help clear her head. And they’d gone reluctantly, leaving her to stuff the bottles of booze scattered around the apartment, the cans of beer, into a paper bag, leaving her to turn off the lights one last time and lock the door behind her. She’d stuck a couple of other things in the bag, too full, ready to tear and spill everything, grocery-brown paper, just some guitar picks from the floor, a t-shirt and a couple of his cassette tapes. Random souvenirs.

  The key made a sound like ice or a camera click.

  And when she’d turned around, he’d been standing across the alley watching her; she’d thought it was Keith for an instant, impossible, dizzy instant, had almost dropped the clinking bag. But it wasn’t him, wasn’t anyone she’d recognized at first.

  “What the hell do you want,” she’d said, sounding as drunk as she was, sounding like a drunken old whore, and he’d looked both ways, nervous, up and down the alley, before crossing to stand closer to Daria. Tall, lanky boy with brown hair and a Bauhaus shirt showing under his leather jacket. Someone she’d seen with Spyder from time to time at Dr. Jekyll’s, one of the shrikes.

  “Before,” he said. “When I called, I didn’t know,” and then she’d recognized the voice, too, shaky and scared, cartoon scaredy-cat voice from the phone. “I’m sorry.”

  “Whatever,” she said.

  “I needed to talk to him.”

  “Too late for that,” and she’d handed him the bag. “Did Spyder send you around to kick my ass?”

  He looked down at the bag, back at Daria, drawing a perfect blank with his eyes. “What?”

  “Do you have a name?”

  “Walter,” he’d said, shifted the bag in his arms, “Walter Ayers. I used to be a friend of Spyder Baxter’s…”

  “‘Used to be’?” and she’d started walking, him following a few steps behind, the bag noisier than their footfalls in the long empty alleyway.

  “I think that’s what she’d say, if you asked her,” he said, walking faster to catch up. “I’m pretty sure that’s what she’d say.”

  “Spyder seems to have her little heart set on burning bridges these days,” and she’d touched her swollen lip, but the pain couldn’t quite reach through the boozy haze, far-off sensation, like the cold all around.

  “She thinks I had something to do with what happened to Robin,” he said.

  “Robin? Spyder’s girlfriend?” Daria stopped, and the shrike stopped, too.

  “Yeah,” and he’d looked back the way they’d come, anxious eyes, anxious tired face.

  “Did you?” but he hadn’t answered, just stared back down the alley like he thought they were being followed.

  “Why’d you want to talk to Keith?” and that hurt, his name out loud, from her lips, little cattle-prod jolt of pain right to the fruitbruise soft spot inside her, the place the wine and beer couldn’t numb.

  Walter shrugged and hadn’t looked at her.

  “I thought maybe he would help, because of that night in the parking lot, when he stuck up for Spyder and Robin. I thought he might know what to do.”

  “You’re losin’ me, Walter.”

  “Who was the girl that left with Spyder tonight?” he’d asked, changing the subject, starting to piss her off. “The Japanese girl?”

  “Her name’s Niki, and she’s not Japanese. She’s Vietnamese and she’s Spyder’s new girl. She moved in with Spyder a couple of weeks ago.”

  “Is she a friend of yours?”

  Daria had thought about that a second, thought about all the shit that had gone down in the weeks since Niki Ky walked into the Bean, almost a month now, and if she were superstitious…

  “Yeah, she’s a friend of mine,” she answered.

  “Then you ought to know that she’s in danger.”

  And Daria remembered the welts on the back of Niki’s hands, like someone had begun a game of tic-tac-toe on her skin with a branding iron, like the ink in Spyder’s skin.

  “Spyder’s not right,” he said.

  “Spyder Baxter’s a fucking froot-loop,” Daria said and now she was staring back down the alley, trying to see what he saw, what he was afraid of.

  “No. I don’t mean about her being crazy. I mean, she’s not right.”

  “Walter, will you please just tell me what the hell you’re talking about and stop with the damn tap dancing?”

  And back in the shadows, then, a garbage can had fallen over, bang, and the sound of metal and rolling glass on asphalt, before something dark and fast had streaked across the alley. Walter almost dropped the bag, and she’d taken it from him.

  “What the hell’s wrong with you? It was just a cat, or a dog, for Christ’s sake….”

  “Spyder’s not right,” he said again, like maybe she’d understand if he repeated it enough times, “and if you care about your friend, you’ll keep her away from that house. Robin knew, and she tried to tell us, and now she’s dead. And Byron believed her, and no one knows where the hell he is.”

  “I think I’m way too drunk for this shit,” she’d said. and started walking again. Walter hadn’t moved.

  “I’ll wait a day or two,” he’d said as she’d walked away. “Just a day or two, and then I’ve gotta leave. If you want to talk, I’ll be around.”

  “Yeah, sure, whatever,” she’d muttered, not caring if he heard, just wanting to be back in her apartment, just wanting another drink.

  And the last thing, before she’d stepped out of the alley and into the cold-comfort glare of streetlights: “I’m not crazy,” he’d said. “I swear to God, Daria. I’m not crazy.”

  5.

  She’d found Claude in her bed, making time with his boy, and she’d made them move it to the sofa. Had found a cleanish glass in the kitchen and screwed the top off a big bottle of Jim Beam, filled the glass to the brim and set the bottle of bourbon next to the bed.

  “Maybe you’ve had enough,” Claude had said, careful, and a glare had been all it took to shut him up. He’d taken his boy and they’d left the apartment, left her alone. Her face, her hands felt fevery, wind-chapped, and her side hurt from Spyder’s boot. A miracle she didn’t have broken ribs; wondered if maybe she was bleeding somewhere inside, and Daria took a long, burning drink of the Jim Beam and went to the bathroom to piss. Just beer piss, safe yellow. She’d finished the bourbon, filled the glass again, and had lain down, head on her own pillow, soft and slightly funky, stared at Claude’s big poster of Billie Holiday through the syrup-colored liquor. The sadness, the fight with Spyder, the weirdness in the alley with Walter, everything running together like candle wax, waxen weight pulling down, and in a few minutes she was asleep.

  “I don’t hate her,” her father says, “I love your mother,” and she looks up from her crayons, her color swirl under black wax and the lines she’s begun to scratch into it with her nails. Outside the sky is low and she can smell ozone and the rain rushing across the Mississippi prairies toward them, can see the electric lizard-tongue flicks of lightning on the horizon. The car bleeds red dust behind them, and she tells him that she knows that, that she never thought he hated them. Scratches at the rising welts on her arms and hands, and he puts his arm around her, pulls her close to him and the steering wheel: her crayons are in the backseat now, and she feels cold and sick at her stomach. The storm talks in thunder, and the orange speedometer needle strains toward ninety.

  “I’m gonna get you to a doctor, Daria, and you’re gonna be fine. So don’t be afraid, okay? You’re gonna be fine. I swear I’d never let anything happen to you.”

  The world rumbles under the thunder, and the car bumps and lurches along the dirt road.

  “I should have listened to your Mammaw,” he says, and she tries not to think about what happened back at the gas station, the old shed and the biting spiders all over her, in her clothes and hair, and the look on her father’s face almost as bad as all th
ose legs on her skin.

  “I was scared, Daria, I didn’t know what to do.”

  Crack, sky cracking open like a rotten egg and blue yolk fire arcing over them. Blistered sky boiling, and she closes her eyes; the blanket that the man at the gas station gave her father to wrap her in itches and she wants to kick it off, but he’s bundled her too tight.

  “I just couldn’t let her hurt you again.”

  She shivers and listens to the thunder. And something else, a wail like the storm has learned to howl, opens her eyes and she looks over dashboard faded plastic and the stitches in the earth laid out before them, bisecting the dirt-red road, iron spikes and steel rails and pinewood ties to close some monstrous wound up tight, and the train, crawling the tracks like a jointed metal copperhead, train so long, boxcar after boxcar, that she can’t even see the end. Can see the candy-striped gate arm coming down in front of them ahead, red crossing light flashing its useless warning.

  Her father presses his foot down hard on the accelerator, and now he’s praying, praying loud, please God, please God, if we get stuck behind that thing she’ll die. And the train bigger than God, the God that hides behind His storm up above and sticks at the land with hatpin fire.

  “Daddy…?” she says, but he’s still praying, and the cyclops eye of the train through the gloom, engine jaws and spinning silver-wheel teeth. And she thinks that it has started to rain, because something’s hitting the windshield, ocher drops that the wind sweeps away. Dry, yellow-brown drops before the shark snout of the Pontiac hits the gate arm and the wood snaps loud, flips up and smacks the windshield, spiderwebs safety glass as they fly over the railroad tracks, careening, jarring flight, and the train is everything on her right, her father everything on the left of her, the storm the world above, and they smash through the gate arm on the other side as the train roars past behind them.