by Eve Silver
Rick’s mouth twists and he turns his head toward me, this man I don’t know, don’t need to know in order to read his expression: anger, and something else, something darker.
He points his right index finger at me, close to my face. “You—”
The wind gusts, catching us on a rare stretch of straight road. The pickup swerves to the right, almost slamming up against the wall of earth that spikes toward the sky. The truck goes one way and I go the other, digging in my fingers to keep myself from sliding all the way across the bench seat and slamming into Rick. He swears and jerks the wheel to the left, sending the truck in the opposite direction, across the yellow line, closer to the flimsy rail that’s all that holds us back from the jagged rocks and crashing surf.
The back end fishtails, the truck gliding over wet asphalt like skates on ice. With a snarl, he jerks the wheel to the right and we’re back in our lane, speeding along the deserted, rain-slick road.
My breath comes in short gasps.
The needle of the speedometer eases down a couple of notches.
I don’t say anything. He doesn’t say anything. We drive.
I shiver and I know he sees it. I don’t want him to think it’s from fear because people like him feed on that.
“There’s a draft,” I say, reaching up to poke at the faulty seal between the doorframe and the window that’s been leaking icy drops since the rain began. Water pools on my fingertip, slides down across my palm, along my wrist, my forearm, my elbow, before dripping off onto my denim-clad thigh.
This morning I’d dressed for what I thought was late June California weather: black t-shirt, denim cut-offs that stop mid-thigh, my purple plaid Converse, my wavy hair in a ponytail, the ever present curly-frizzy bits escaping at the sides. Then I’d locked the apartment door for the very last time. It was empty. I’d sold everything I could, and what didn’t find a buyer, I’d donated or dragged to the Dumpster. Everything I own is smooshed into the massive, camping-sized backpack I’d discovered in a second-hand store. It sits now between my feet, the top grazing my knees.
I stare out the window at the rain, not really seeing anything.
I’d left Brooklyn thirteen hours ago.
A bus ride and plane ride and truck ride ago.
A lifetime ago.
I shiver again, and this time it really is from the cold. It didn’t take long after we left San Francisco behind for me to figure out that I don’t know shit about Northern California weather. I unzip the pack, pull out my black hoodie, and shrug it on.
In the pocket is the letter my aunt sent, folded in half and in half again. I’d read it twice on the plane, adding to the dozen or so times I’d read it in the week since it arrived. Each subsequent read yielded no more information than the first.
A letter. Not an email. Not a phone call.
Aunt Patience wrote me a letter in response to the letter I sent her because the only contact info I had was a yellowed slip of paper with a hand-written mailing address. I found it in the drawer of Mom’s bedside table. I tried to get a phone number for my aunt so I could call, but either my search engine skills failed me, or my aunt doesn’t have a landline. I pretty much wrote: your sister is dead. She pretty much wrote back in her cramped, wobbly, back-slanted cursive: I didn’t know she was sick. Here is a plane ticket to San Francisco, though I no longer live there. I am in Carnage Bay now. Your uncle poses no objection to you coming. A man, Richard Parsons, will fetch you from the airport.
The abundance of warmth and welcome in that brief paragraph left me all soft and fuzzy inside. The first time I read her reply, I wondered why my aunt didn’t call me or email, why she wouldn’t meet me at the airport herself. I wondered briefly if Richard Parsons was my uncle, but my aunt’s wording—a man, Richard Parsons—made me think not. There was no time to write her back to ask the questions churning in my thoughts and then wait for her to mail her reply. Not if I wanted to make that flight. Any answers I’m going to get will have to wait until I see her in person.
I almost decided not to come. I could have taken the $738.00 I have to my name and gone anywhere.
I could have just disappeared with no one the wiser, no one to care.
But I made a promise, and I keep my promises, even when they make no sense.
“I need to know you’ll be safe,” Mom said when she told me to go find her sister. “You’ll be happy with Patience. You were always happy to see her. Remember?”
I haven’t seen Aunt Pat in eight years, maybe more. I have fuzzy memories of a young, pretty blond woman. Girl, actually. At the time, she must have been just a little older than I am now. I remember big blue eyes like Mom’s, but Aunt Pat’s turned up a little at the corners, especially when she laughed. She laughed a lot. Mom laughed with her, which was rare enough both before and after Aunt Pat’s visits that the image stands clear and bold in my thoughts.
I remember that my aunt visited every few weeks for a while, in the time before Mom stopped going outside altogether. The fading strains of the music at the carousel in Central Park dance at the edges of my memories, Aunt Pat riding the horse next to mine, Mom standing on the side, expression pinched and nervous, arms crossed and pressed tight to her midsection.
I remember that when Aunt Pat told me she was going away, that she wouldn’t see me but that she’d write to me, I cried into my pillow.
After she left, she kept her word, writing us long, colorful letters, happy stories of travel and excitement with a man she called My Prince. Houston, Las Vegas, Reno, San Francisco. Mom read those letters aloud to me like bedtime stories. After a couple of years they came less and less often, then not at all. I don’t know if Mom and Aunt Pat had a falling out or if distance drifted between them. It’s a long way from Brooklyn to California.
Of course, it wasn’t the distance that kept Mom from taking me for a visit…from taking me anywhere…ever.
Maybe my aunt will be able to explain the why of that. Just days before she died, Mom stared hard at me and said, “Pat has answers.”
“To what questions?” I asked.
“Questions and secrets and things best left buried.” Mom closed her eyes, the lids thin and papery. I drew the sheet higher. She grabbed my wrist with surprising strength and whispered, “Think carefully before you dig them up.” Her lids flipped open and she turned her head, her eyes locking on mine. “Promise you’ll go to her. Promise.”
She clutched at my hand, her fingers more bone than flesh, blue veins stark against gray-white skin. By then I’d stopped pretending that Mom was going to get better. Still, she refused to go to the hospital, refused to leave the apartment, sending the EMTs away when they came in response to my call.
She was more afraid of going outside than she was of dying.
“You used to call her Patty Cake. Do you remember?”
Her words made my chest tighten. Mom didn’t do nostalgia. I nodded even though I didn’t remember calling my aunt that and Mom nodded back, happy with my little white lie.
“You’ll be happy with her. With family. And she’ll tell you…”
She closed her eyes and I thought she’d fallen asleep. Then her lips—blue and chapped—moved and I leaned over to catch her words. “You didn’t promise to find her. I need you to promise, Lucian.”
So I promised.
Within weeks, orphaned, alone, my mother’s whispery demand haunting me, I used the one way ticket my aunt sent, got on a plane, and ended up here.
“Lucian,” Rick says, jarring me from my thoughts. “That’s a boy’s name, ain’t it? You’re not a boy dressed as a girl, are you?”
I realize that I haven’t paid attention to him or the rain or the road, lost in my own thoughts for who knows how many miles. The highway has veered inland, away from the ocean. We’re surrounded by trees now, and ahead of me where the road heads north…more trees, thick-trunked and tall.
Rick watches me, waiting for an answer. I almost ask him if I look like a boy, but I recall the feel
of his eyes on me at the airport, raking me and stopping in places that creeped me out, so instead I say, “Lucian means light.”
I don’t tell him it was my brother’s name. Lucian Lafayette Warner. The brother I never met. The one who died three years before I was born without ever taking his first breath. And it was my sister’s name. The sister I never met. The one who died two years before I was born, her tiny body just shy of two pounds. At least, that’s the way Mom told it. She said I was lucky number three. The one who lived. She named me Lucian just like she named them Lucian. Because Mom was bat-shit crazy.
“I prefer Luce,” I say.
“Well, Lucian”—Rick bares his teeth—“I need gas and I need to take a shit. You might want to use the facilities yourself. Or you can wait till we get you to your aunt. We’re almost there now.”
He pulls off the road and circles around to the side of a squat brown building with a white sign on top that proclaims: Easy Mart. The rain’s let up, but concrete clouds edged in charcoal hang heavy in the sky, promising that there’s more to come.
* * *
Chapter Two
Take A Picture
Once the truck is parked, I push open the door, glad for the chance to stretch my legs. I pause, staring at my backpack, a wave of uncertainty crashing through me. Everything I own is in that pack. What if Rick drives away? What if he leaves me stranded? I don’t even have a phone number for my aunt. All I have—
All I have is her letter and on it, her address. I’ll find my way there and if Rick takes off with my backpack, my aunt can help me figure out a way to get it back. I repeat that to myself until my nerves settle.
Panic and fear swallowed my mother’s life whole. I won’t let them do the same to mine. I have goals, dreams, hopes, and I will see them come true. I’ll find a job and keep saving. I’ll go to college. I’ll build myself a life that makes me happy, brick by brick, stone by stone.
I slide my wallet out of the pack, shove it into my pocket, then slam the door shut and lift my head to find Rick standing by the truck, his sneer telling me that he’s guessed the direction of my thoughts. He drags the back of his hand across his nose then wipes it on his jeans. Turning my back on him, I walk around the corner of the building.
The door to the Easy Mart creaks as I push it open. There’s no one at the cash, but I can hear sounds of movement through the open door behind the counter and I figure the cashier is back there. The smell of coffee teases me. I walk over to the pot, thinking a precious dollar might be well spent on something to warm me from the inside out. I squash that thought like a bug. A dollar is a dollar. I need to save each one. The only person contributing to my college fund is me.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath through my nose, enjoying the aroma. Then I turn and walk back outside to stand beside the bench under the overhang and wait for Rick. The gas pumps are off to my left and he hasn’t pulled up to them yet. I figure he’s still taking care of the other task he mentioned with such delicate manners.
A couple of minutes later, the door of the Easy Mart creaks again as it opens. I glance over to see a man step out, his face weathered and lined, his body greyhound thin. In his hand is a paper cup with steam coming off the top. He holds it out toward me. “You look like you could use this.” When I make no move to accept his offering, he adds, “No charge.”
“I can pay.” The second the words are out I want to haul them back. If I’d wanted to waste a dollar on coffee, I would have.
One side of his mouth crooks up. “Didn’t mean to ruffle your feathers, girl. It’s just a cup of coffee. I put in a couple packets of sugar and some cream. You look like the sugar and cream type.”
Actually, I like my coffee hot and strong and black. One out of three is better than none, so I take the cup as is. “Thank you.”
“Take a load off.” He juts his chin toward the bench.
“I’ve been sitting most of the day. I’d rather stand.”
“I’ve been standing most of the day. I’d rather sit.” He settles himself at the opposite end of the bench, as far from me as he can get. I figure that’s for my comfort, not his. But you never can tell. People have all sorts of weird quirks. “You hitchhiking?” he asks, glancing first at the empty gas pumps then the empty parking lot.
I blow across the surface of the coffee, watching the steam curl up. “My ride’s parked around the side. He’s…occupied,” I say, for lack of a better description.
“You passing through or staying for a stretch?”
I cut him a sidelong glance.
He holds his hands up, palms forward. “Don’t need to tell me if you don’t want. It’s just that I know pretty much everyone around here. Only two other gas stations in Carnage Bay, and one more outside town limits to the north. At some point pretty much everyone shows up here for a fill. So if you’re visiting, I’d like to put your face to a name and link that name to one I already know.” He waggles his brows and says with unabashed glee, “I’m a busybody.”
Carnage Bay. Rick said we were almost there, but I hadn’t quite trusted him. “A busybody, huh?” I lift my coffee as if offering a toast. “I’d never have guessed.”
Easy Mart laughs. “So?” he prods. “Staying or going?”
I almost don’t answer because sharing information with strangers has never been a personal goal. Then I remember my aunt lives here. I live here now. Offending the locals on day one might not be my best plan. Besides, I’ll be needing a job and the Easy Mart might have an opening.
“I’m here to stay with my aunt,” I say.
“For how long?”
I shrug.
“Tell me your aunt’s name”—Easy Mart’s whole face creases into a smile—“and I’ll tell you some gossip.” He winks.
The corners of my mouth twitch. His good humor is kind of infectious and I can use something to smile about.
Just then, Rick’s truck eases into view. He parks in front of the pump and ambles over to open the gas cap.
Easy Mart’s eyes follow him, and he isn’t smiling any more. He pushes to his feet and when he looks at me again, his brows are drawn together, carving deep grooves above the bridge of his nose. “Is that your ride?”
I swallow, the coffee turning bitter and a little salty on my tongue. “Yes.”
“Your aunt’s name?” he asks, his expression neutral, his tone firm. He isn’t joking any more. And suddenly I want to tell him because I want to hear what he has to say about her. Rick hasn’t exactly been a chatty font of information on our drive north.
“Patience Warner.” Only as I say her name does it hit me: Mom’s married name was Warner. It’s my last name. So how can her little sister’s name be Warner? Yet that’s the name that was on the yellowed scrap of paper I found in the nightstand, the name I addressed the letter to. I didn’t notice the oddity at the time. Guess I was too busy burying my mother and selling everything we owned. Anyway, I doubt it’s a riddle Easy Mart can answer, but maybe he can answer some other questions. I try for a smile, but my face feels stiff. “I’ll take the gossip you promised now.”
Easy Mart shakes his head, and his eyes slide from mine. “I don’t want to make trouble.”
“Wait,” I say as he steps away. He stops, his back to me, his shoulders bunched and raised. “What sort of trouble?”
He looks back at me over his shoulder and from the tense set of his lips and the clench of his jaw, I can see he’s warring with speaking or staying silent. Silent wins. He reaches for the door handle.
“Wait,” I say again. “Please.”
“Your aunt’s name’s Patience Davey now, not Warner. You have a care around Mr. Davey.” I hear the growl of a motor and Easy Mart’s attention jerks to a point behind me, his expression darkening even more. But I don’t turn to see what has him frowning. I feel like this guy has something important to share and if I look away even for a second, he’ll decide not to tell me anything. After a long pause he grunts. “You take care around anyone
with the Davey name.”
He pushes open the door. I think he’s had his say, but then he turns back toward me without crossing the threshold and the spring pulls the door shut with a snap. He stares at me, his lips drawn in a thin, pale line. Then he rubs the lower half of his face, his fingers sliding down off his jaw. “Why don’t you wait here, Patience Davey’s niece? Let Rick Parsons be on his way and you stay right here. There’s a boy comes by to take the evening shift at seven. I’ll take you home to my wife. Feed you some dinner. Then take you back the way you came. Send you back home.” He nods, and I can see he’s liking this plan more and more as he formulates it. “Yes, I’ll send you home. You’ll be happy I did.”
Can’t say I’m not tempted. Head back to Brooklyn, to the known and familiar. I have some good friends there. Abby. Nagar. Daph. I could find a shitty little room somewhere. Work a shitty little job. Figure out what it is I want to study and apply for school. A big part of me wishes I could grab hold of Easy Mart’s offer with both hands and just go home.
But home is gone, the apartment already rented to someone else, everything that made it home buried, sold or tossed.
Besides, I promised Mom I’d find Aunt Pat, and that’s exactly what I intend to do.
“My aunt’s the only home I have now,” I say, uncharacteristically open with this man whose name I don’t know, my tongue feeling thick and sluggish in my mouth. “She’s expecting me.”
Easy Mart’s shoulders move—up, down—as he takes a heavy breath. “Well…” He shoots a last look toward the gas pumps and Rick Parsons, and then yanks the door open once more. “That’s a shame. A damn shame.”
This time the door snaps shut only after he’s gone inside and I’m left alone under the overhang.
I slump down on the bench and sip at the coffee; it doesn’t taste so great between the cream and sugar and the sour edge of Easy Mart’s weird warnings. I curl my fingers around the cup, absorbing what little heat I can as I study the motorcycle parked in front of the second pump, the kind of bike that looks like it’s built for speed. A spray of mud from the wet road feathers the black paint. The rider climbs off, his face obscured by a black helmet. His black t-shirt is plastered against his back and chest, his jeans dark from the rain.