Circled

by Anne McAneny

  “That man that runs Inks and Kinks. You know him? He looks like he’s seen more than his share of the sun. He ran into Momma in the grocery store last week and he said she could make men pitch tents or something like that—if she prettied herself up some.” Macy had heard the phrase from two high schoolers in town last week. She knew darn well what it meant, but her innocent grin and dimples implied otherwise. She watched Quail’s lips twist into a mushroom shape and quiver. “And that’s what she did, Mr. Quail. She prettied herself up right fine this morning. Put on some heels and a skirt and more make-up than I seen her wear in a good, long time.”

  “Hmp, well, I don’t like the sound of that one bit, but a job’s a job, I suppose.” Quail glanced over to Hoop’s unit, scoping out his next victim, and then returned his gaze to Macy. “You know, your Momma and I went to school together. I was in better shape then, but I never did…” He waved away the rest of his statement.

  Macy suspected he might be blushing, but it was hard to tell given his splotchy skin. Then his eyes assumed their usual, coal-like aura, and he continued. “Used to think she’d amount to something, but look at her now. Damn jock husband left her high and dry, and she can’t even pay a lousy rent.”

  The stinging words lashed Macy, but she’d learned a lot about survival since her dad had walked out. She shook her head as if commiserating with Quail, then she bit down on her lower lip and glanced at him confidentially. “I shouldn’t say—well, no, I’d better not.”

  Quail leaned his 6’3” frame down to Macy, but only as far as his stomach would allow. “Go ahead. You can tell me.”

  Macy lowered her voice. “Well, a few times, when we’ve been sitting around trying to figure out how to make ends meet, Momma mentions how she sure chose the wrong guy in high school, and if only she had it to do over again . . .”

  Quail pulled his melon head back far enough to rest it atop his mishmash of chins. “Is that so?”

  “It’s so. Says she wishes she’d chosen the guy who liked her better than all the rest but was too shy to act on it.” Macy twinkled and batted her eyelashes. “And she never fails to mention the success you’ve become. That Richie Quail, she says.” Macy stood on sturdy ground now, certain that Quail had no idea of her mother’s acidic tone when mentioning him.

  Macy watched the big man’s ego swell. She could practically see him swimming around in his inflated self-image, soaking up the adulation like a cockroach in a warm bath.

  Quail pulled himself up to full height. “You know, doesn’t surprise me one bit your Momma feels that way, not one bit. But that’s neither here nor there now.” His words argued against the grin trickling across his floppy lips. “So you don’t have that money, then?”

  “Sure don’t, but I can run it by your office in the next couple days. Might even be cash if they give tips at that tattoo place. You must know if they do.”

  Quail was caught off-guard with that one, unaware that Hoop had taught Macy the advantage of keeping people off-balance by a degree or two. Never hurts to rattle someone’s foundation, Macy. You’d be surprised what can happen.

  “What? No!” Quail said. “How would I know? You think I have tattoos?”

  Macy simply stared, her blue eyes more blameless than anything going on behind them.

  “What’s your name again?” Quail said. “Stacy? Gracie?”

  She smiled as if he’d paid her a compliment. “It’s Macy, sir, just like the parade.”

  “All right, Macy. You bring me that money within two days, y’hear?”

  “I’ll deliver it myself, Mr. Quail. Promise.”

  Quail descended the stairs and mumbled to himself as he trudged toward Hoop’s door, his footsteps surprisingly light for such a heavy load. As Macy watched him go, she wished she hadn’t added that promise bit. She hated breaking promises, but not as much as she hated for her mother to be tormented.

  She closed the door. There was no way to come up with that money.

  Chapter 23

  My airboat had never before delivered me to a date, but driving to Rafe’s would have meant a fifteen-minute trip, even longer if the bridge was up. By boat, I was but a quick sneak-peek away, and I really needed something to end this day on a good note.

  It did feel silly, however, to step onto my refurbished 1994 Cottonmouth Airboat in three-inch heels. Definitely an insult to the nature of the craft. When I bought it used, the engine had forty hours on it; I’d added over two hundred since then and would gladly relive every one of them. I might not have been the biggest fan of Beulah, but the swamp and I had a mutual understanding: I would love and respect it, and it wouldn’t kill me.

  I cranked up the fan and felt the hum of the craft as much as heard it. The sound of the huge whirring blades lulled me into a tranquil state. Then I reached over and switched on the light—didn’t want to hit a gator, after all. They were easy to spot by the reflective shine of their eyes at night. Always came in twos—except on Old Bastard, of course, an ancient mainstay who’d met with a nasty enemy or vicious fishhook somewhere along the way. Last time I laid eyes on Old Bastard’s eye, Hoop had rowed me out in Mr. Swanson’s canoe, a vessel he’d adopted as his own because Mr. Swanson had graduated from canoe to cane and rarely left his porch anymore.

  #

  “There he is!” Hoop had said. “Old Bastard in the flesh!”

  Hoop always threw him a fish—against the recommendations of experts—but Old Bastard never bit.

  “You ever get scared he’s gonna eat you alive, Hoop?”

  “Nope. I’ve sat with him plenty. Had some of my finest conversations with Old Bastard.”

  “About what?”

  “Life. The future. The secrets of the swamp.”

  “And he never gets carnivorous during these chinwags?”

  “Nah. Gators are ectotherms, Clover. They got low metabolic rates—unlike your humble captain here—so they don’t eat much. A big dog’ll eat more in a year than an eight-hundred-pound gator does. That’s why, for insurance, I toss a fish or two at him before settling in to partake of his wisdom.”

  “How long you think he’ll live?”

  Hoop blew air out between his lips. “Good question, Clover. Can’t say as I know, but there’s this gator over in Serbia, hails from Mississippi, believe it or not, and he’s been around since before World War II. Goes by the mighty cool name of Muja. Still kicking as far as I know, and I figure Old Bastard’ll smash Muja’s record by a landslide.”

  #

  I realized I hadn’t seen Old Bastard in over six months. I really needed to pay him a visit.

  With my left hand on the rudder, I cruised along, my stomach churning as fast as my blades. Was it possible I was nervous? I gazed at Rafe’s house. A single lamp shined from his living room, but as I got closer, I spotted random beams of light radiating in various directions inside the house, flashing on and off at inconsistent intervals. A vision of a disco ball and strobe light popped into my head, and for one irrational moment, I worried Rafe might answer the door in a white tux, breaking out vintage John Travolta moves.

  Still, despite a legitimate fear of hearing Night Fever, I made a smooth landing, hobbled onto his deck in my heels, and tied up my boat.

  I grabbed the wine I’d brought and traversed the beautiful stone walkway that would lead me to the front yard. It wasn’t until my fourth step that I noticed how the path automatically lit up in front of me while the stepping stones behind me extinguished themselves into darkness. The effect was both charming and sinister. Were there cameras out here, too? Were upskirt shots of my thong underwear going viral in real-time? As these irrational thoughts crowded my head, I wondered why I was even going to a near-stranger’s house when I feared both disco and voyeuristic perversion.

  I reached the front of the house, ascended the eight bluestone steps, and stood immobile under the eerie glow of two yellow lights. My hand, moist with sweat, remained clasped in front of me, refusing to reach out and ring the doorbell. Wh
at had gotten into me? I’d been on plenty of dates and besides, this wasn’t really a date. It was two neighbors—

  The door opened. No creaking or scraping. It simply opened. I pasted on a smile like the one in my fourth grade class photo and almost fell back when I saw Rafe’s feet—dangling in the air. They hung at knee level. I tried to scream, but the sound got lodged in my throat, ballooning down and outward with such force that I feared a flesh-and-blood explosion right here on the porch.

  But Rafe’s feet were moving, and not in a random way. They were doing some sort of creepy box dance, with no floor. I couldn’t stop staring at them. They were clad in expensive loafers, a single leather tassel on each. My throat suddenly clamped shut, and my legs turned to lead before the back of my neck tensed up so hard that it caused an instant, blazing headache to flare. Finally, despite my temporary paralysis, my eyes rose up and my scream became all too real.

  Chapter 24

  Rafe was not, in fact, dangling from a noose as I’d feared. He was smiling down at me, gesturing for me to enter. His lips moved, but no words escaped. As I stared with one part fascination and two parts horror, I searched desperately for wires, projectors, or any logical explanation, but my speculation was cut short when the upper left quadrant of his head evaporated, as if taken out by the silent heat of a sniper’s bullet. It happened with no blood—and no apparent consequences—because his mouth kept moving despite the lack of a frontal lobe. I felt like I’d landed in the middle of some badly dubbed, Japanese zombie movie.

  Suddenly, my fear and panic vanished. In their place blossomed anger and rage. I recalled the strange lights from earlier, along with Rafe’s fascination with lenses and light-splitting, not to mention the magical appearance of a yellow rose from his duplicitous palm.

  This was some sort of trick.

  I shouted at the apparition that now bobbed in midair like an elevator attendant unable to decide on a floor, “Screw you, you weirdo! I should have known you’d be a warped son of a—”

  The door flew open all the way. A desperate, panting Rafe stood before me, his feet planted firmly on the floor, his head in one cohesive piece. Beads of sweat sprinkled his forehead; half-headed Rafe had somehow disappeared.

  Instead of melting into a grateful puddle of relief or rushing into a fit of trembles as my adrenaline subsided, I coiled up and struck, using words in place of a forked tongue. “You thoughtless son of a bitch! You evil, inconsiderate lowlife! I knew you were different, and undeniably strange, but I hadn’t realized you were a diagnosable psychopath.”

  I smashed the neck of the wine bottle against his doorframe and poured the dark red contents onto the absorbent bluestones of his front landing. It would stain permanently.

  “Chloe, I am so sorry,” he said, the grin on his face belying his words. Even as he tried to repress his impish expression, it shone through in the delightful crinkles that highlighted his dark eyes like snappy jazz hands.

  I reached down, whipped off the shoes I’d regretted putting on anyway, and began the humiliating march back to my boat. But in a flash, Rafe dashed down the steps ahead of me and blocked my path.

  “Get out of my way,” I said, my voice flat but promising a roller-coaster of an encore if necessary.

  “Please, Chloe. That went horribly wrong. I’m working out some final kinks in a project, and I got wedged inside my control room in the rush to get to the front door. I must have nudged a mirror and God knows what it did to my hologram.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “I’ll tell you what it did. It evaporated your brain, although I suspect that organ may have taken its leave long ago.”

  Again, he could barely contain his spirited smirk despite a valiant effort. His irrepressible joy was hard to ignore, but my rage kept firing fresh jolts into my system. I poked him hard in the chest. “You don’t do that to a person.”

  “I beg forgiveness,” he said, bowing with a swirl of his fingers. He continued his downward spiral into a one-kneed pose as he reached for my hand. “Please . . . give me another chance? You’re the last person I want to hurt.”

  Although my wrath was quelling, the sentiment hadn’t quite reached my larynx. “Who’s the first?”

  He smiled and lifted his eyes to mine. “You see? It’s always words with you, and you do delight me with your choices.”

  “All right,” I said. “Get up. I don’t like anyone that close to my feet.”

  He kept his eyes high. “Remarkable arches, though. A silhouette of your foot could easily pass for an alligator sunning itself on a warm rock.” At my disgusted expression, he added, “That’s a high compliment, you know.”

  I pulled on his hand until he stood all the way up. With him situated one step lower than me, we stood face to face, our eyes and mouths exceedingly close, and I resented the rippling sensation it sent through my body. Because our hands were still linked, he took the opportunity to amend his initial greeting. He pumped my hand up and down several times. “Chloe Keyes, I am so glad you could join me tonight. Won’t you please come in?”

  I could never explain why I left my hand in his and allowed him to lead me into his contemporary home with the Frank Lloyd Wright vibe, but even as it happened, I knew I wanted it to. We crossed the two-story foyer decorated with steel tables and huge quantities of camellias, tulips, and roses. No sign of a Rafe avatar. I followed him into a cavernous room with a painted cathedral ceiling. It seemed as if Rafe had contracted Michelangelo himself to enhance the décor, and I definitely wanted a closer look.

  The steel theme flowed throughout his home, combined with exposed beams, sleek black furniture, and a massive amount of high-tech astrology or photographic equipment. The latter was strewn about in a careless but sterile manner.

  I dropped my shoes on a beautiful area rug and let him lead me to the kitchen. Despite the scene at the front door, I felt instantly comfortable with my host and sensed that he felt the same way. He released my hand at the precise instant I expected, and, as if choreographed, he placed the stem of a poured glass of pinot noir into my waiting fingers. Had he known I’d be painting the porch with the bottle I brought?

  I sipped the wine and relished its subtleties; it had been a very trying day. When I turned to face the main room, Rafe flowed over and stood next to me. “Chalet Borose,” he announced.

  “Rhymes with morose,” I said.

  He swept his hand to encompass the magnificence, including the vertically intimidating windows that faced my house. I noticed that I’d left a bathroom light on, but more consequentially, I realized how my juvenile spy charades with clunky binoculars were mere child’s play to him. And for God’s sake, I really needed to stop walking around naked on Sunday mornings.

  I stepped into the living room with its vast array of telescopes, lenses, and things I couldn’t name, letting my hand stroke the top of one piece as I spun toward him. “Care to explain?”

  “That?” he said, pointing to the phallic equipment beneath my fingers. “That is a high-level Celestron telescope, capable of seeing everything from the notches of Orion’s Belt in December to the crack in the left pillar supporting your house.”

  If circumstances were anything close to normal, I might have found the comment disturbing; circumstances, however, were not even orbiting normal. “When I asked you to explain,” I said, “I wasn’t referring to this telescope, and I think you know it.”

  “Ah, you meant Hologram Rafe.” He strode over and stood across from me, the telescope jutting upward at an angle between us. “He’s quite handsome, isn’t he?”

  I sipped my wine in response.

  “It’s a hobby of mine,” he said. “Splitting light, as I mentioned in the swamp, and interfering with it. That’s really all holograms are. But I’ve got a nasty habit of taking hobbies to the extreme. Three pending patents for my work in the area, in addition to four I already hold.” He gestured to the water between our homes. “Sometimes, I think it’s all a hologram.”

  “The swamp?”r />
  “No, Beulah. Back Beulah especially. With its homey charms untouched by modernism and its quirky, workaday vibe. But then, there’s a darker aura.”

  “I don’t disagree.”

  “An aura of having been secreted away like the naughty child you don’t acknowledge when guests visit. It strikes me as a place with sharp edges, ruthlessness, and self-delusion—the idea that everyone should act and believe one way while those in power act and believe otherwise.”

  “What does any of that have to do with a hologram?”

  “If I can split the light that creates the illusion of a place like Beulah, then it’s within my power to reveal the deeper, darker layers.”

  “Why would you want to?”

  “Because while everyone’s staring at the hologram and believing it’s real, their souls are being picked like a pocket.”

  “Picked of what?”

  “Decency. Humanity. Truth. All pilfered by the man behind the curtain.”

  The Wizard of Oz reference threw me, as if Rafe had plumbed my recent thoughts. “And who is this man?” I asked.

  “Remains to be seen, I suppose.”

  I stepped away from the telescope and ventured into the heart of the high-ceilinged room. “For a newcomer,” I said, “you have a very sober take on Beulah, but I see it differently. To me, it’s a jaded snow globe, a joke designed by Norman Rockwell on his worst day. Beulah gets shaken up now and again, and maybe the world glances our way, but then it all settles down and excitement floats to the bottom, until nobody cares anymore. Nobody gazes in. We return to stillness and isolation.” I turned to take in the view of my jaded town. “But I don’t mind. I like it better when it’s settled and established.”

  “Why?”

  “The shaking has never brought good.”

  “What about the lottery winners? That brought good to the town.”

  “It was the snow in the snow globe, maybe. But you know what happens to snow after a couple days. It turns black from exhaust. Becomes a burden if it doesn’t melt.”