Providence

by Caroline Kepnes

  I see Chuckie, in a room, alone. I see Lo, in this room, not looking at me, looking at the floor, this is how she survives: she thinks about other things.

  She clears her throat. “You know,” she continues, “when he was married, he and his wife were in New York and she had to go away for work and he left her. He came back here. Back to good old Providence.” She chuckles. “Lovecraft was interested in the world. People like him, they knew all of it, they could talk about anything and they did talk about everything.” She runs her hand over the book in her lap. “The Seinfeldian minutiae of a trip to the store, the meaning of life, the existence or lack of a God, this is where they had us beat, you know?”

  She’s pointing her finger at me, I’m hard as a rock, but I keep it concealed. She needs this, this is her fire, her case.

  “Sean Anders.” She nods. “This kid last year, tells me he thinks reading fiction is a waste because when you read nonfiction you learn about something real and when you read fiction you learn about something someone made up.”

  She cackles. I want to bend her over the side of the bed, pull those damn pants off. I wish I could listen to her and be with her at once. I wish the two desires weren’t two equal beasts, jaws of life, clamped.

  “And Lovecraft, oh, I wish he was here. I wish he could explain to Sean Anders that from the facts come the imagined. From the imagined comes the real. Because that’s what happens when you read Lovecraft’s letters, letters rooted in what is, nonfiction, and then an hour later you read his fiction, wild things, things you can hardly comprehend, you think, this is horror. The worst that’s possible, worse than what we can imagine. This one monster, Cthulhu, the idea is that none of us pronounce his name correctly because his name is ultimately not meant for humans, we can’t pronounce it correctly.”

  Can’t.

  “And you read fiction because it reminds you, someone like Lovecraft…” She runs her hands through her hair. One of her nipples is hard. “Well,” she says. “It reminds you that there just might be more to the world than you realize. Maybe. I mean you see a kid in a Lovecraft hat. You know why? Because the man is dead and he’s still pulling us together. Like at the Biltmore this weekend, every year, there’s a whole conference, people flooding here to talk about H. P. Lovecraft as if he’s some kind of rock star.” She laughs. Both of her nipples are hard now, bottle caps beneath the cotton. She untwists her legs and slips down, deeper into the bed, under the covers. “I guess the shorter answer would be, the kid wearing the ‘I am Providence’ hat, he might be at that convention. He’s wearing that hat, I hope, because he gets it, or he wants to get it, that you are fate, you are Providence, and fate is you, but then also, so what? What the hell is providence? What good does that do ya? ‘I am Providence’ is a question disguised as a statement. It’s like any faith, it’s blind.”

  She smiles at me, the mind alive and calming smile, sideways, half-open mouth, shimmering teeth, the smile that says come here, baby. So I do.

  EGGS

  Every time that damn door opens my whole back seizes up on me. This has to be a four-star hotel and you’d think they’d fix a door like that on a day like this, knowing there are gonna be so many people in and out, in and out.

  I could stop a waiter and ask if someone from maintenance could take care of it, but I’m trying to be invisible here, blend in, and it’s bad enough, the way I stand out. I can’t figure out why, exactly. It’s not like everyone is so young. For the most part, sure, the people here are on the younger side, but you have your fair share of over-forties too. A lot of them wear T-shirts to show their love of H. P. Lovecraft, and they mill around pointing at each other’s chests, Cool shirt, dude. I’ve seen three hats that scream I AM PROVIDENCE.

  But zero hats attached to a face that is bearded or bruised or both.

  Which is why my neck tingles when that door opens again, waank. But it’s just a girl, a girl with long black hair and a big fat smile. Her smile. That’s what it is. It’s the happiness that gets me. Sure, I’ve been in happy rooms. But this is different from a wedding or a retirement party. This is a bunch of people sharing happiness, feeding off each other, as if they’re a bunch of vampires biting each other’s necks. Mmm, delicious!

  The door waanks again and I spin around. Nope.

  This room, these people, are here because of books, and if Lo were here she’d smack me. Of course they are, Eggie. I’ve told you, books save lives.

  And the plain truth about me being in here, I stand out because I’m unhappy. I get a chill through my achy backside, as if I saw myself in a mirror, a cold mirror. I don’t like it. I don’t like knowing that nothing in my life makes me this happy, nothing except Lo. You’re supposed to have more than a woman. You’re supposed to have interests, things that make your eyes pop out of your head like this geek here, taking a picture of the placards above the coffee—OUTER GOD COLD BREW, DARKNESS DARK ROAST, UNDEAD (FRENCH ROAST)—everything here is renamed to honor their hero, their Lovecraft.

  The door again. All the hope in me zings through my veins, like some kid waiting on Santa. Two guys come in. Both too skinny and old to be the Beard, who would probably be alone, we have that much in common. But that’s all, insofar as I can figure.

  I know what to expect. I know his height, his weight. I know his hat. I am Providence. I know he’ll have facial lacerations. There will be bruising. Possibly a broken nose, a black eye, maybe even two. Damn hat, damn grainy footage. But the kid will be jammed up. Maybe he’ll be limping. Even if he didn’t go to a clinic, he’d have to do something about his ribs. If he wrapped himself up, he’ll be bulky, wearing a loose shirt.

  The door again. Come on, buddy. I got that feeling in my gut. This is it. I smell him. A large hand. A strong leg. But then the top half, red hair, eyeglasses, another big fat smile. I sink. Nope.

  The Beard might be Army. Or he might have done time. He might have been pro ball. Might have known Krish from a gym. This morning I told Lo that it might be a love triangle, or he might be a dealer. Could be a situation where the Beard might know all my heart attacks.

  “Eggie,” she said. “Now you’re just making up stories. Is it time for us to trade jobs?”

  The door again. Yeaan. But even from here I can see fingertips painted, long and pointy. It’s a girl. Damn it. She holds the door and the hope swims up in me. But then it’s a chubby kid, can’t be more than five-two, couldn’t grow whiskers let alone a beard. Damn it. I wrangle a tea bag from my pocket. I plop it into a cup of hot water and slam a saucer on top and set my timer.

  The woman next to me is humming, pouring coffee. “That’s a lot of work for a little cup of tea.”

  She’s smiling too, she laughs when she spills hot coffee on her hands. The guy next to her, he’s offering ice, just because he’s a nice guy, not even trying to get into her pants. The magic of people who want to be together, who are together, getting what they want. This must be what it’s like inside a working brain. She beams at me, lifts her cup. “Here’s to dancing sober.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Oh come on,” she says. She scrolls through her phone. “Well the exact words, ‘Almost nobody dances sober, unless they happen to be insane.’ ”

  I blush. I look at the door. Nothing. It’s becoming possible that I was wrong, that I misdirected my focus, that the hat is a dead end, that he doesn’t even know who said I am Providence. That he only bought it because he liked it. The happy little woman gives up on me, moves on to another festivalgoer, Did you see the bathrooms where instead of Girls it says Kassogtha? The two of them drift off together and I am alone, dancing sober. I did not see the bathrooms and I do not see the Beard. The lights flicker. They’re gonna start. Another fan comes up, little guy.

  “Random,” he says. “What’s your favorite book? Go.”

  If Chuckie were okay, this is what I’d want for him, this kind of joy.


  But I don’t answer the question. The door opens again, slowly this time, someone who must have been out there hearing what I hear, that yeean screech that grinds on your nerve endings. There is a hand. A big hand. This guy is hesitant, delicate. Yes. I see it all at once and one piece at a time, I am Providence on the hat, pulled low, so low that the bill almost reaches the beard, the full beard, my beard. He must have two black eyes because he’s wearing sunglasses, just like Romy said, textbook hipster.

  This is why you hang around by the coffee, why you abide your gut. It’s true what they say about those hipsters. They like their coffee. The Beard, he makes a beeline for the station, walking hard, tall. Ex-cop? Maybe. Drug dealer? Maybe again. I take the saucer off of my cup. I dig out the bag with my fingers. The tea is gonna be thin, not steeped all the way, but the Beard is here. He’s pouring coffee into one of those reusable cups the hipsters enjoy.

  I smile, the way all the happy people do. “You see those bathrooms?”

  He shakes his head. Hiding behind those sunglasses. Hiding from who?

  “You should see ’em,” I say. “You know, they covered up MEN and WOMEN with Lovecraft words.”

  He pours cream. “I’ll check ’em out.”

  Nothing in his voice. Ice cold.

  “You hit any traffic on the way here?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “Not really.”

  Evasive. Alone. The Beard. Looking around the room. I move closer to him, he moves away from me. But I’m close enough to see what he’s hiding, the bruising around his left eye, blue indents, scratches. This is him. This is it.

  “You remember last year?” I say, in my shooting-the-shit voice. “Last year this room was bulging with people. This year not so bad.”

  “This is my first time,” he says.

  “Oh yeah?”

  He nods.

  “You from here?”

  He shakes his head. Still keeps moving away from me, ever so slightly, or maybe I’m moving in too strong. “Nope,” he says.

  “I’m a lifer,” I say. “Born and raised.”

  He nods. “I moved here a little over five years ago.”

  The timeline fits. Just in time to poison people with some untraceable drug that doesn’t show up in an autopsy, in your blood. He’s cold. I can imagine him selling powder to people. I bet Krish scored some when the girl cheated on him, when he wanted a breather. Yvonne, she probably thought it was something fun, something like molly, one of the dancing drugs. Fuck this Beard. Fuck him and his poison.

  I raise my cup. “Here’s to dancing sober.”

  He doesn’t look at me. “Yeah.”

  I catch his eye. “You look like you’re looking for someone.”

  His eyes skate around. “Just figuring out where to sit.”

  “You meeting anyone here?”

  He shrugs. “Just looking for a chair.”

  “You working?” I ask.

  He looks at me. Now he gets it. Now he knows that I’m working, that I want him to know I’m working.

  “Yes,” I say. “Yes, I’m a cop.”

  He backs away, tiniest bit. “Cool.”

  “Is it?”

  His hand is shaking. Up front there’s a woman walking up to the podium. People are on their feet, hooting, clapping. The door opens and I don’t hear that noise. The Beard is sweating. This is easier than I thought it would be. I put down my cup—tea’s not steeped enough anyway, no loss there—and gently take the back of his arm—he’s jacked, he could have fought back—and lead him to the door. Nobody notices because all eyes are on the front. All eyes except my eyes. My eyes are on him. The Beard. I tap his head. He jerks.

  “Calm yourself, son. I’m just here to ask about that hat of yours. That’s one hell of a hat.”

  You can see his heart beating like in the old Bugs Bunny cartoons. He gulps. “Thanks. I should get a seat.”

  But he doesn’t move, he knows he can’t, feels it, me.

  “Sure,” I say. “You remember where you got that hat? I didn’t see ’em downstairs. Maybe you could show me. There’s so much down there, you know, hard to know what’s what.”

  He nods. No words left. And we’re walking out the door and I ask him about his black eye. Rollerblading, he says.

  I hit the button for the elevator. “My son rollerblades. What kind of skates you got?”

  He hangs his head, silenced. We wait for the elevator. He can’t answer because he’s lying. I caught him. I hear the muted roar of applause inside that ballroom and a wave of nausea crushes me. It’s no fun getting old, when your whole body is turning against you, I get like this a lot lately. The twinge in my gut, the feeling I might faint. Fall over.

  The kid eyes me. “This is harassment,” he says. “You have no grounds to be doing this.”

  Little shit. Cold-blooded. But of course he is. The elevator dings. I turn it on now, the big dip, the big switch. “I suggest you shut your mouth so you don’t get another shiner to match the one you already got.”

  He didn’t fight back with Krishna, and he doesn’t fight back with me.

  EGGS

  I was able to make the lineup happen because it’s Saturday. Stacey’s at a birthday party and I’m senior enough that nobody’s watching me, not on the weekend. Amazing, how even in a police station you can feel it, the weekend, the desire to work a little less harder, to skate by.

  I got six guys in the lineup and this could never be admissible in court. But this isn’t about court. The Beard shut down on me in the car, when I cuffed him. Wouldn’t tell me where he gets his shit, wouldn’t say a word when I drove him by Brown, down onto Thayer, where you can’t even get into the falafel place because of all the flowers.

  “Any of this ring a bell?” I asked him.

  Nothing. I tried again. “Did you wanna tell me how you knew Krish?”

  More nothing.

  “Is that what the poison is called? ‘I am Providence.’ Is that why you wear the hat? Or were you there because you were selling to someone? Where’s your stash? Did you rip off Krishna? Do you move hard on the RISD kids? I imagine they enjoy their drugs. Goes well with their art.”

  Every question got more nothing. The hat. The silence. The guilt. And now it’s time for something.

  “Bring ’em in,” I say, commencing the lineup.

  The Beard walks out along with five other scuzzos I pulled in, all of them with their mangy hairy faces, all in those heavy-billed hats, the hoodies, the loose jeans. And my witness leans forward, my Romy, ever the good citizen.

  “Well,” she says.

  “Nah nah,” I say. “I want you to be quiet for a few minutes. I want you to look. Not react. Not yet. You just look.”

  What I’ve learned so far today is that Romy is a philosophy major (God help me) with an Addy prescription and a paper due. She talks a lot. She was dying to come in here because she loves real life and she’s like a lost kitten since Krish died. See how people do that? How they make someone into something? Romy forgets that I know it all, how close they were, how close they weren’t. But when she got here, she was wearing a men’s crew sweatshirt, drowning in it, as if it was hers to wear, as if he was hers to mourn.

  She wants so badly to be the hero, the bereaved savior who overcomes her red eyes to bring justice to Krishna. She wants it so bad she can’t put that fever aside and think. She’s posturing, an actress waiting to make her entrance. She told me she read a lot about the justice system and she’s hesitant to rely on her own eyes, subject, as they are, to her sentimentalizing the incidents at hand. I told her to put her faith into herself as well as the system.

  She talked over me, about the nature of observation and perception, her hesitance to assume a participatory role in justice without comprehending the extent of my contribution. I promised her that this is way too early for
consequences.

  “Romy,” I say, lowering my voice. “You are one witness and this is all very preliminary and your identifying this man isn’t enough. So don’t worry. What you’re doing here today is helping me out. You don’t have the power to put anyone away. Now…which one is he?”

  She sucks in her cheeks. “Well,” she says. She holds that air in, kills me, puffs it out. “Well, he’s not here.”

  “Romy, take a minute.”

  “I would know him if I saw him. I would know.”

  “As you yourself said earlier, your memories are colored by your emotions.”

  “Right,” she says. “But that has nothing to do with the fact that he’s…not…here. He was bigger than these guys and he looked sad, lonely somehow.”

  “That’s likely you projecting your own feelings onto him.”

  “No,” she snaps. Confident. Excruciating. “Believe me, I got a good look at him. A long look.”

  “Were you on Addy then?” Her cheeks burn. Watch it, Eggie. “Sorry,” I say. “I just want you to take time, I know you’ve got your paper due, your stress, losing Krish. This is a situation in your life where you can relax. You can take all the time you need. You know, I can talk to your professor, get you more time if you need it on that paper.”

  She looks into the room, where my beards are all lined up, as I told them to be, but something strange is happening. My beards are filing out of the room. One by one. I run to the door and Stacey’s right outside.

  “Eggie,” she says. “How’s your weekend going? You having some fun?”

  “Stacey.” How much did she hear? How much does she know?

  “How about you come down to my office and tell me about all the fun you’re having? Because that’s much more important to me than Sonny’s baseball game.”